Between the Devil and the Deep, Blue Steele-Chapter 13
by kgmohror
Summary: Set in Season 3 between "Let's Steele a Plot" and "Gourmet Steele." Mr. Steele believes a few days at sea might melt the Freeze that the Cannes Agreement put on their relationship. But his plan runs aground when a mysterious death on board their cruise ship distracts the detectives from their recreation.
1. Chapter 1

Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Steele

_Note: This story is set in season three, between "Let's Steele a Plot" and "Gourmet Steele." I try to cleave close to canon, so readers should approach this in the context of the situation between Steele and Laura on the show during this period._

CHAPTER 1

At 8:55 am, Laura breezed into the offices of Remington Steele Investigations with exaggerated cheerfulness. "Good morning, Mildred!" she chirped, pausing to sniff the fresh carnation in the vase on the receptionist's desk.

"Good morning, Miss Holt." Mildred handed Laura the morning's mail. "Your first appointment is with a Mr. Edward Poole at 10:15."

Laura shuffled through the stack of envelopes. The usual assortment of bills and junk mail. "Thank you, Mildred. Let me know when Mr. Steele gets in." She started for her office.

"Mr. Steele is already in this morning, Miss Holt."

Laura pivoted on her heel and cast a glance at the closed door to Steele's office. "Really?" She glanced at her watch. "That's a first." Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What is he up to, Mildred? If he's meeting with a client without me-"

"Oh, nothing like that, Miss Holt. He came in about 8:15 to get started on that paperwork you asked him to take care of yesterday." Noting Laura's raised eyebrow, she continued, "He really is trying very hard, Miss Holt."

"About time." Laura pursed her lips deliberately, trying to suppress the slight smile that tugged at her mouth as she imagined Mr. Steele floundering amid a sea of case reports and budget spreadsheets. She'd give him another half hour of toiling at the detail work he so despised, then reward him with a reprieve: a cup of hot tea and discussion of the week's caseload. Laura knew he'd be chomping at the bit to get into the "action" — which would not, of course, include the sort of routine legwork that every case entailed. She did a quick mental inventory of the current client list, considering which he might find most engaging. The least she could do was keep him reasonably happy with his role at the agency, since she couldn't give him what he _really_ wanted.

As if reading her mind, Mildred said, "Oh, Miss Holt. I hate the way things are between you two these days."

"I know, Mildred." Laura answered. "Believe me, I understand that things are a little … awkward … right now. But it really is for the best. Don't worry. Once we've moved through this, er, transition period, things will run a lot more smoothly around here." She offered the secretary what she hoped was a reassuring smile. "In fact, it's already getting easier every day," she lied, as brightly as she could muster.

Laura maintained her chipper demeanor all the way to her own office, then closed the door, sat down at her small desk and sighed. She'd admit to herself, if to no one else, that maintaining the _strictly business_ stipulations of the Cannes Agreement was more difficult than she'd expected. Difficult — but necessary.

If only she weren't so … itchy. Curse the man, getting her hooked on his kisses and caresses over the past two years. My God, she was feeling so deprived she'd even lost her head over that pompous boor, Butch Beamis! She blushed to think of how she'd thrown herself at the man. Any other time, she'd have given the jerk a swift kick to the assets when he made a fast grab. Laura was almost glad of the few times she and Mr. Steele had slipped into old habits: a brief clinch on a bed in England, a couple of kisses in Ireland. It may have prolonged the process of letting go, but at least they took the edge off. Hair of the dog that bit you, Laura smirked.

Laura distracted herself with prep work for her 10:15 meeting. Routine stuff, no more than an afternoon's legwork. Steele wouldn't be interested in this one. Still, she'd pull him in to give the client that personal Steele touch that always dazzled 'em. As she picked up the phone to dial his extension, a sudden commotion in the lobby caught her ear. She got up and opened her door to see what was going on, and noticed Mr. Steele pop his head out of his office at the same time. They exchanged puzzled glances, then turned their attention to the lobby, where a stout, expensively dressed older woman was engaged in animated conversation with Mildred.

"I tell you, I simply must see Mr. Steele!" she was saying. "I'm sure he'd want to get this news personally."

"As I said, Mr. Steele is in conference and cannot be disturbed," a visibly irked Mildred responded.

"It's quite all right, Mildred," Steele said, stepping out of his office. He crossed to the woman, took her hand and kissed it: a signature move. "Mrs. Peabody! Delightful to see you again!"

The woman melted like a Hershey bar on a hot sidewalk. "Oh, Mr. Steele!" she fluttered. "I'm so pleased to see you again!"

Steele turned to Laura as she moved to join them. "Mrs. Peabody–"

"Please, call me Marian."

He smiled. "Marian, this is my associate, Laura Holt. Laura, Mrs. Pea– Marian … is a doyenne of the Beverly Hills Country Club. She is the extraordinarily gifted driving force behind the club's charitable efforts."

The matron beamed. "Thank you, Mr. Steele."

"Call me Remington."

She giggled like a schoolgirl. "All right, _Remington_. But of course none of our efforts would be successful without the generous support of members like you." She paused to allow Steele to bow slightly in acknowledgement of the compliment. Laura resisted the impulse to roll her eyes.

"I suspect you know why I'm here, Remington," Marian continued.

"On the contrary, dear lady," he answered. "As delighted as I am to see you, I don't know …" He trailed off as a sudden thought seemed to hit him. His eyes opened wide and a broad smile erupted on his handsome face. "Wait a minute! You don't mean …?"

"Yes! Congratulations!" She clicked open her Gucci handbag, fished inside and pulled out an envelope. "You are the grand prize winner of our raffle: A cruise for two on the maiden voyage of Festival Cruise Line's new ship, the Fiesta!"

Laura and Mildred gasped in unison. "You won a cruise?" Laura sputtered.

"So it would appear, Laura." Steele plucked the envelope from Marian's fingers and deftly tucked it in his inside jacket pocket. "I'd completely forgotten about this. Naturally, I wasn't looking to win. I was just happy to support the very worthy cause of … of … er …"

"Polo lessons for underprivileged youth," Marian supplied, clutching his arm. "It's going to be a wonderful adventure! Half a dozen couples from the club will also be sailing – my Martin and I have a stateroom reserved ourselves."

Laura decided it was time to step in. "Um … when is this cruise, Mrs. Peabody?"

"Next week. I suspect the head of the Remington Steele Agency will be able to get the time off." She winked up at him. "Five glorious days and four glamorous nights on board the most elegant, luxurious ship ever to sail the Caribbean."

"Sounds wonderful." Laura offered the woman a polite smile. "Mr. Steele, might I have a word?"

"I'll let you get back to your important work," Mrs. Peabody said. She gave Steele's arm a squeeze. "I'm so looking forward to getting to know you better on board," —she batted her eyes at him — "Remington!"

As she sashayed out of the office, Laura snagged her partner's elbow and steered him into her office. "You're a lucky man, Mr. Steele," she said, closing the door behind them. "Of course, it would have been nice to have a bit of notice. I promised a couple of potential clients you would meet with them personally next week. Now I'll have to reschedule, if I can't convince them to accept me instead."

Steele sat on the edge of Laura's desk, folded his arms and beamed at her. "First of all, Laura, I could hardly have known in advance that I'd win this trip. And secondly, you will have to reschedule those meetings anyway, because you're coming with me."

"I most certainly am not. I have a business to run, Mr. Steele."

He reached into his pocket, pulled out the envelope and waved it in front of her face. "Tickets for two, Miss Holt. Balmy tropical breezes. Exotic ports of call. Excitement and adventure. All-you-can-eat buffets!"

"You're forgetting our agreement, Mr. Steele. Five days in the Caribbean doesn't sound like a professional trip."

"Ah, but it could be, Laura! Think of all the well-heeled business contacts we could make over shrimp cocktails in the captain's dining room?"

Laura wavered. "I just can't see closing the office for a week …"

"Mildred can hold down the fort. No case work, of course, but she can man the phones and keep the lights on." He watched a familiar little furrow form between her eyes, a sign that she was torn. "Of course, if you really don't feel you can spare the time, I can go myself. I'm sure you trust me to represent the interests of Remington Steele Investigations without your supervision."

Laura shook her head and sighed, perfectly aware of what he was doing. She leaned over her desk and punched a button on the phone.

"Yes, Miss Holt?" came Mildred's voice from the machine.

"Clear my and Mr. Steele's schedules for next week. It seems we'll be out of the office."

She answered Steele's broad grin with a shake of her head. "Anchors away, Mr. Steele."


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

It was a sight to behold, Laura had to admit. The Fiesta loomed high over the pier at the Port of Miami, a gleaming white monolith seven stories high and the length of two football fields. Row upon row of small windows lined its flank, and a bright blue, y-shaped smokestack arched gracefully from the rear of the ship like the fluke of an enormous whale.

Laura and Steele stood amid a few dozen older couples at the first-class departure gate. "I feel a little conspicuous," Laura said.

"Hmm?" Steele looked at her, saw her gesture toward the sea of gray heads around them. "Oh, well, it's early yet," he said distantly. "Older folks — and certain beautiful, Type-A private investigators — like to give themselves plenty of time." He was distracted, gazing upward with a grin and an expression very close to awe. "A grand lady indeed," he murmured. He gave Laura a gentle elbow dig to her ribs. "Pretty swank, eh?"

She shrugged. "I won't really be impressed until Gopher welcomes us aboard."

Steele looked puzzled. "I don't think there will be any animals on the ship, Laura."

Laura shook her head in exasperation. "Do you even turn on that expensive television of yours?"

"Only for the late movie."

A crewman in a crisp, white uniform appeared at the front of the gate. He smiled at the crowd. "Please have your boarding passes ready," he said. "And welcome aboard the Fiesta, the shining new star of the Festival line!"

Laura fished in her purse for her pass and adjusted her shoulder bag as the passengers in front of them began to surge through the narrow gate to the gangplank. She stayed close by Mr. Steele as they ascended to the gangway, where they were met by another uniform-clad fellow holding a camera. He quickly ushered them behind a mock ship's wheel in front of a cardboard backdrop seascape. "Smile!" the man commanded, raising his camera. Steele responded by slipping his arm around Laura's waist and pulling her close. "Ship ahoy!" he exclaimed as the camera flashed.

The cavernous atrium was designed to give passengers a dazzling first impression of the ship — and the sophisticated detectives from Los Angeles were not immune to its grandeur. As first-class passengers, Laura and Steele circumvented the tedious check-in queue. Instead they were met by an officious young steward bearing a clipboard and a slightly puzzled expression. "Welcome aboard, er…"

"Steele. Remington Steele. And Miss Laura Holt," Steele supplied helpfully. The young man consulted his clipboard, then looked at them. "_You're_ Remington Steele?"

Steele beamed. "I see my reputation precedes me." He leaned closer to the officer and whispered confidentially, "I hope there won't be a fuss made over us. We're really just here to relax and enjoy ourselves like the rest of the passengers."

"Um … very good, sir. Festival Cruise Lines is delighted to welcome you to the Fiesta."

"And we are delighted to be here," Steele answered, "Aren't we, Laura?"

Despite herself, Laura couldn't help smiling. Traveling with the eminent Remington Steele was a far cry from the tourist accommodations she'd been used to all her life. She could get to like this treatment.

The steward, who identified himself as Michael, led them to an elevator. They stepped inside the brushed aluminum interior, and their guide pressed the button for deck 9. "Hmm," Steele murmured, looking over Michael's shoulder at the panel of lighted buttons.

"What?" Laura asked, noting his frown.

He leaned close and muttered in her ear. "There's a deck above us."

"So?"

Steele snorted. "I was rather expecting the penthouse for the price," he muttered.

"What price? You won this trip." Suddenly suspicious, she grabbed his sleeve and looked up at him sharply. "Say … just how much did those raffle tickets cost?"

He thrust his hands in his pockets and tried to look nonchalant. "Oh … a hundred, I think."

"Dollars? You paid $100 for a raffle ticket? That's ridiculous!"

Steele gave her a disapproving look. "Tut, tut, Laura. Polo lessons are expensive. Think of the children."

She rolled her eyes. "I suppose $100, though an outrageous price for a raffle ticket, is a bargain for a luxury cruise. You're just lucky you won."

"Indeed," Steele answered, clearing his throat.

The elevator doors slid open and Michael, Laura and Steele stepped into a narrow passageway, where a few other passengers of the same vintage as those on the dock were following their own stewards to their cabins. "Your stateroom is in the stern," Michael said. He led them to the very end of the long passageway, stopped in front of the door to cabin 935B, and opened the door.

"I hope you will find everything to your satisfaction, sir and madam," Michael said formally.

"Oh, I'm sure we will," Steele answered. He pulled his wallet from his inside jacket pocket, withdrew a $50 bill and pressed it discreetly into Michael's hand. "Thank you, my good man."

The steward smiled broadly. "My pleasure, Mr. Steele. I look forward to serving you." He turned on his heel and fairly skipped down the passageway.

"A fifty?" Laura remarked. "Bit excessive, don't you think, big spender? And I thought you were supposed to tip at the _end_ of the cruise."

"I've always found a small sign of appreciation at the outset encourages exemplary service," Mr. Steele answered. "Besides, these kids barely make a pittance. The high seas are the last bastion of slave labor."

"Speaking from experience, Mr. Steele?"

His answering smile was typically enigmatic. "I've spent time on a rust bucket or two, but nothing as classy as a cruise ship. Shall we?" He gestured to the open door.

Laura stepped past him into the cabin. It was small, but more spacious than she'd expected. Her eye was drawn to the wall of large windows facing seaward and the glass door leading to a private balcony. A cabinet of some dark wood stood along one wall, and on it were a bottle of champagne in a silver ice bucket, two glasses, and an enormous basket of fruit, cheeses and crackers. Most of the floor space, of course, was occupied by …

"A king-size bed?" Laura exclaimed. She turned to pin Steele with an icy glare. "You didn't tell the cruise line we needed separate beds?"

Steele looked affronted. "Really, Laura. My reputation …"

"… is apparently more important to you than your life," Laura snapped. "I mean, given the—" she paused to choose her words "—the _situation_ between us, how could you possibly think this would be acceptable?"

Steele's expression was neutral, but there was a glint of fire in his gaze. "Given the _situation_ between us," he said evenly, "how could I possibly think it _wouldn't_ be acceptable? You made it perfectly clear in Cannes and every day since that our relationship is a professional one only."

"If you consider sharing a bed a part of your profession, you're in the wrong line of work."

Steele sighed. "First of all, Laura, I had no idea what sort of accommodations would be provided, and frankly, it didn't occur to me to ask. Secondly, this bed is enormous. We could invite half the crew to join us and still have plenty of room to avoid one another."

She shook her head. "You seriously expect me to sleep in this bed with you?"

"Well, sleeping would never be my first choice, but it seems the only option open to me. Unless you don't trust yourself."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Well, then. I'm glad that's settled." He stepped around the bed to the cabinet and liberated the bottle of champagne. Scrutinizing the label, he shrugged. "Not of the finest vintage, but more than acceptable." He quickly popped the cork and poured. Handing Laura a glass, he smiled. "To five glorious days and four glamorous nights together." He slanted his flute to clink gently against hers.

"To plenty of productive networking," she countered, returning his clink.

"Ah, Laura. You certainly know how to take the fun out of 'fun ship.'"

Their stateroom was on the back of the ship, affording a fascinating view of the departure from the pier from their balcony. After the coast faded from view, Mr. Steele plopped down on the bed to peruse a colorful brochure touting the ship's features. "Laura, this is fantastic! '_Dazzle, our state-of-the-art discotheque on the Aloha deck, definitely lives up to its name! After dancing the night away, try your luck at the open-all-hours casino on the Caribe deck_."

"Sounds very exciting." Laura stepped out of the bathroom and finished pulling her hair into a ponytail. She picked up a folder of materials from the bedside table and sat on the edge of the bed to examine them.

"Enjoy some of today's hottest acts and Las Vegas-style shows in the Diamond Carousel Theatre," Steele continued. "Then relax at the end of a wonderful day with a drink in the Lido Lounge."

Laura had withdrawn a sheet of paper from the folder and was studying it closely. Suddenly she began to laugh. Steele looked up from the brochure, surprised.

"I'm glad you're getting into the spirit of things, Laura," he said as she continued to chuckle. "Mind sharing the joke?"

Laura fought to regain her composure. "Mr. Steele, being the detail-oriented detective you are, I'm sure you knew when you bought that raffle ticket that this is a Golden Age cruise."

"If you mean I saw a golden opportunity to combine business with purely platonic pleasure …"

"Sorry, not quite. At least that explains the scene on the dock," she added.

"Laura, what are you talking about?"

She served up a rare, full-toothed grin. "This is a seniors cruise, Mr. Steele. I think it's safe to assume that, apart from the crew, you and I are the youngest people on this ship by a good 30 years."

Steele's face assumed an expression equal parts shock and horror. "You mean we're going to spend the next five days on a floating nursing home?"

"At least we won't have to worry about getting indigestion from the buffet. I expect the food will be nice and bland."

Mr. Steele sat up and looked at the glossy brochure glumly. "I guess the disco will be pretty dead, if you'll pardon the expression."

"On the contrary," Laura said. "It says here that for this special week only, the disco has been converted to a polka palace."

Steele cringed. "And the casino?"

"Nickel slots and bingo."

He sighed. "I suppose I don't even want to know about the live entertainment."

Laura consulted the itinerary. "Tiny Bubbles in the Wine: A Tribute to Lawrence Welk. Sounds … soothing."

"Oh, Laura," Steele moaned, dropping his face in his hands.

"There, there, Mr. Steele." Laura moved to sit beside him and put a comforting arm around his shoulders. "There's still plenty of excitement on board the good ship Fiesta. Why, there's a mahjong tournament tomorrow …"

"Ooph."

"Oh! And the lending library opens at 5:30. I bet they have the full collection of Reader's Digest Condensed Books, large print editions!"

"Laura, cruelty doesn't become you."

She gave him a light punch on the arm. "Just think of all the business contacts you'll make over glasses of warm milk in the Lido Lounge!"

"That's it!" Steele exclaimed. "As a famous sailor once said, 'I've had all I can stands, I can't stands no more!'" He turned, wrapped his arms around Laura and gently tackled her. They wound up side by side and nose to nose on the bed, laughing.

When they'd finished giggling, Steele smiled wryly. "It's beginning to look like this may not be the trip-of-a-lifetime I hoped it would be. I'm sorry, Laura."

"Don't be so sure, Mr. Steele," she said softly, reaching to stroke his cheek. "I'm already feeling more relaxed than I have in a long time."

A moment passed as they lay looking into each other's eyes. Laura felt the tension rising, a quickening of her pulse as first his blue eyes, then his long, delicate fingers, caressed her face. She held her breath as he rose up on one elbow, leaned over her, his lips parting slightly as they descended to meet hers …

DING-DONG!

Laura and Steele jerked apart as a sound like the world's biggest doorbell issued from a speaker above the bed. It was followed by a crisp, male voice: "Ladies and gentlemen, this is the signal that the lifeboat drill is now in progress. Collect your lifejacket and proceed to your muster station, where you will receive further instructions."

"Interrupted at the most inopportune moment," Steele groused, sitting up. "This place is beginning to feel like home already."


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

Standing in a long line on the lifeboat deck, Laura and Steele discovered that Laura's assessment of the average age of the passengers was not entirely accurate. The male passengers were uniformly over the hill, but there was a marked range in the ages of their companions. Sprinkled among the silver-haired ladies were a few fiftyish bottle blondes, a handful of forty-somethings and, standing out from the crowd, a luscious redhead who couldn't have been more than 25.

At the direction of a perky female crew member, Laura and Mr. Steele slipped their orange life preservers over their heads and fastened the straps around their torsos. Laura looked down at the unfamiliar protuberance under her chin. "I can see why they used to call these things Mae Wests."

Beside her, Steele snorted. "Mae West is probably on this ship." He looked down the line of orange vests, then gave Laura a little nudge and cocked his head in the direction of the hot redhead. The woman was fiddling with the straps of the vest worn by a decidedly older gentleman. "Private nurse?" Steele whispered.

"Private _something_," Laura replied, lifting her eyebrows meaningfully.

"Yoo hoo! Mr. Steele!"

Laura and Steele turned in the direction of a kerfuffle. It was caused by Marian Peabody, with a sheepish-looking fellow in tow. "Excuse me," Marian said, squeezing into line next to Mr. Steele. "We're in the same group," she explained to the indignant passenger she'd muscled aside.

"Ah, Marian. I see you made it aboard," Steele said politely.

"Yes, and isn't it simply splendid?" she prattled. "You've met my husband, Martin, I think? Oh, and there's Lyndon and Sarah Morgan!" She waved at someone further down the line. "And Richard Tisdale and his wife Lauren, and Mr. and Mrs. Huntington — I don't know their first names, they're new to the club, but I'm sure we'll all get to be great friends, and, hmm … I don't see the Pollards. I hope they made it; she's not well, you know." When she paused for breath, Laura took the opportunity to satisfy her curiosity.

"That couple — the well-dressed gentleman and the redhead — are they part of our group?"

Marian glanced in the direction Laura indicated, then sniffed and turned away. "That's Cornelius Merriweather and his new wife, Darla," she said in a low tone. "She was an … ahem … _exotic dancer_. Poor Joanne — that was Corny's wife . Married 33 years, then when that trollop got her claws into Corny, she was tossed out like yesterday's cream cheese Danish. She got a nice settlement, of course." Marian pursed her lips. "Of course, I don't blame Corny." She nodded knowingly at Laura. "He's a man, after all."

Laura and Steele exchanged glances as Marian continued her soliloquy. "You'll get to meet Corny at dinner tonight — he's at our table. I hope you don't mind that I arranged for you and — Miss … Bolt, is it? — to be at our dinner seating. You're coming to the cocktail mixer, I hope?"

They were spared having to answer when the captain's voice came over the loud speakers to explain the safety features of the lifeboats: "All lifeboats are provided with an adequate supply of water, food and first aid equipment as well as other emergency fittings and equipment necessary for the proper handling of the boats …"

"But do they come equipped with Tallulah Bankhead?" Steele quipped.

Laura knew him well enough by now not to have to ask for the inevitable tutorial.

"Lifeboat. Hume Cronyn, William Bendix, Tallulah Bankhead. Twentieth Century Fox, 1944. Survivors of a torpedo attack share a lifeboat with a member of the crew of the U-Boat that sank their ship." He shuddered dramatically. "Ooh. Gripping stuff. One of Hitchcock's best."

"Oh, I don't think there are any U-boats around here," Marian said. "I'm sure we'll be perfectly safe."

"Indeed, dear lady. I expect weight gain and tan lines are the only things we need worry about on this excursion."

"Well, how do I look?" Laura stepped out of the bathroom to find Steele adjusting his bow tie in the mirror on the wall opposite the bed. She did a leisurely pirouette to show off the curves of her sapphire blue, beaded gown and was rewarded by his slow whistle.

"You look incredible, Laura," he said with frank admiration. "Remind me not to let you sit next to old Corny. He'll forget all about that copper-haired gold-digger."

Laura clipped a pair of dangles to her ears. "You agree with Marian that she married him for his money?"

He shrugged and pulled on his white dinner jacket. "He seems satisfied with the arrangement. Unless the old codger is senile, more power to him — and her. Too bad about the first wife, though."

Moments later they were being ushered to their table in the sumptuously appointed dining room. They found Marian and Martin Peabody already there, along with the couples she'd identified as the Tisdales, Huntingtons and a pair she now introduced as Ernest and Carolyn Galloway. Cornelius and Darla Merriwether were seated near Laura and Steele's empty chairs. Mr. Merriwether was dressed in a tuxedo, while his young bride wore a red gown with a plunging neckline. Her auburn hair was swept to one side, held by a jeweled clip. Seated among the older women in their expensive, but slightly matronly dresses, Darla stood out like a neon sign. Laura noticed that while the others at the table engaged Corny in animated conversation, his wife appeared invisible to the rest of the group. She didn't seem to mind, though, or even notice: Darla's full focus remained on her husband. Clutching his arm, she gazed up at him with a look of utter devotion.

Laura turned back to Steele, who had just been introduced to Cornelius by Marian.

"Where do you have your funds, Remington?" Marian was saying. "Corny manages all our investments. He's an absolute wizard. You must make an appointment to see what he can do for you when we get back."

"That sounds like a good idea," Steele answered noncommittally. "Is this your first time cruising, Corny?"

"No, I used to sail quite regularly with my first wife. This is my first time at sea with this one. We've only been married a short time." The older man reached inside his jacket and withdrew two fat cigars. "Cohibas, straight from Havana." He offered one to Steele, who accepted it with evident delight.

"Not a cigar you see every day," Steele noted, passing it under his nose to appreciate its fragrance.

Corny had flipped open an etched silver lighter and was rolling the end of his cigar slowly over its flame. "Up until 18 months ago, you could only get one of these babies if Fidel handed it to you himself." He put the cigar to his mouth, drew on it deeply and exhaled a cloud of potently aromatic smoke. Several of the ladies at the table coughed delicately.

"Perhaps I'd better save this for later on deck," Mr. Steele said, slipping the cigar into his vest pocket.

"Suit yourself." The older man took another drag on his cigar. As he exhaled, he snapped his fingers impatiently. "Waiter! You, boy!" he snapped at the young man who was walking by, carefully balancing a tray with many plates. The waiter paused.

"May I help you, sir?"

Corny waved a hand over an empty high ball glass. "Fill 'er up. And give it to me straight this time. There's nothing worse than watered-down Scotch."

As the waiter scurried away, Merriwether leaned toward Steele and nodded in Laura's direction. "You've got yourself a fine-looking little dolly there, Steele. I guess we know how to pick 'em, eh?" He put his arm around Darla's shoulders. The young woman's worshipful expression never faltered.

"Ah … absolutely," Steele said, throwing an uneasy smile in Laura's direction. He began putting his own arm around her, but at her warning look he hastily withdrew. "I'm a lucky man, Corny," he said quickly, "I think it's safe to say Laura here made me the man I am today."

"Nice save," Laura whispered, giving him a barely perceptible wink. "If you'll excuse me a moment," she announced, "I'm going to freshen up in the little … _dolly's_ … room."

"Oh, I think I'll join you," said Marian Peabody.

Moments later the two women stood side by side before the makeup mirror. While Laura touched up her lipstick, Marian powdered her nose.

"Your Mr. Steele is a remarkable man," Marian said.

"You could say that."

"He certainly came to the rescue for us," Marian continued. "I'm afraid the raffle would have been a complete failure if it weren't for him."

"Oh? How so?"

"Well, we ladies were having a little trouble selling the tickets. I didn't think $100 seemed out of line, but apparently, times being what they are …"

"I'm glad Mr. Steele was able to help."

"Oh, he did more than help. We only printed 50 tickets, and when he bought 40 of them-"

Laura dropped her lipstick into the sink. "What? He bought 40 tickets? At $100 each?"

"Yes! Such generosity! Why, he could have purchased the best cabin on the ship for less than $3,000. But he was so committed to seeing those poor children get their polo lessons."

"He'll be committed all right, when I get hold of him," Laura muttered under her breath.

"Hmm? I didn't catch that, dear." She looked curiously at Laura. "Are you all right, Miss Holt? You seem to have gone rather pale."

Laura's smile concealed gritted teeth. "It's nothing, Mrs. Peabody. I'm just a little overwhelmed by Mr. Steele's … generosity."

Marian's plump face suddenly took on an anxious expression. "Oh, I hope you won't mention to Remington that I told you. He asked me not to make a fuss about it. Great men are always humble."

"Mmm, yes," Laura agreed. "In fact, I have a feeling Mr. Steele and I are about to discover just how humble he can be." She snapped her purse shut and stalked out of the restroom. She paused at the dining table just long enough to grab her beaded shawl from the back of her chair. "I'm afraid you'll have to excuse me," she announced to her tablemates in a quavering voice. "I have to leave."

Steele looked up at her in shock. "Laura! What's the matter? Dinner is about to be served."

"I've lost my appetite," she hissed, turning on her heel. She made it to the elevators before Steele caught up with her.

"Laura, wait! What's going on?" he implored as she stabbed furiously at the up button. His face bore an expression of genuine alarm. "Are you sick?"

"Oh, I'm sick all right," she spat, stomping into the elevator as the doors whooshed open. "Sick of you and all your lies and stupid schemes."

He moved as if to join her in the elevator, but she pushed him back. The doors slid shut again, leaving her with a final look at his shocked face.

The elevator was not express, and Laura had to endure several protracted stops as slow-moving senior couples got on and off at the eight passenger decks beneath the first-class section. By the time she finally reached Deck 9, she was shaking and barely holding back angry tears. At their cabin door, she fumbled in her purse for the key. Before she could get it in the lock, Mr. Steele burst through a door marked "Emergency Exit." Panting, he leaned against the wall next to the door.

"Laura," he gasped. "At least tell me why you're angry."

She stared. "Did you actually just run up nine flights of stairs?"

He nodded, wheezing.

"You're crazy. Why didn't you just wait for the next elevator?"

"I …(gasp) … thought … you'd (cough) … you'd lock … me out."

Laura pushed the door open. "You're right. I would have." She grabbed his arm and hauled him into the room, depositing him in a crumpled heap on the bed. "Try not to have a heart attack. I didn't bring anything appropriate for a burial at sea." She went to the bathroom and brought back a moist washcloth, which she dropped on his red and sweaty face.

"Thanks," he said, his voice muffled beneath the cloth. When he removed it from his face a moment later, he was alone in the room. Looking around frantically, he spied Laura standing outside on the balcony. He waited until his breathing returned to its natural rhythm, hoping it would give her time to cool down. Then he quietly joined her. She was staring into the star-spangled sky, the warm salt breeze gently ruffling her hair. Far below them, the sea churned and glowed a foamy white in the wake of the ship.

"I'm sorry, Laura," Steele said softly.

"For what?" she answered, not turning.

A beat. Then: "I don't know, actually."

She faced him then, her expression stony. "Try harder. I'm sure you'll be able to come up with any number of things requiring remorse."

Steele sighed. "Laura, I can't make amends if I don't know what I've done."

"You led me to believe you won this trip."

"I _did_ win this trip."

"Yes, but you made sure to stack the deck in your favor, didn't you?"

"Ah." Steele grimaced. "I gather Marian told you how many tickets I bought. Laura, it didn't cost the agency anything, I swear. I used my own money."

"It's not the money." Laura sighed. Suddenly she felt very tired. "It's the deception, the dishonesty. You just had to cheat."

"It wasn't a fix," Steele protested. "There were 10 other people who could just as well have won the trip. Yes, the odds were in my favor. But it wasn't a sure thing."

"What I don't understand is, what was the point? You could have booked the cruise outright instead of going through this raffle rigamarole – and don't tell me you care that much about kids playing polo."

He paused, took a deep breath. "I knew it was the only way you would agree to come with me," he said.

"You did all this just to get me on a boat?"

"Get you away from the office, yes." He leaned against the railing next to her. "I thought maybe if we were alone together we'd have time to … I don't know. Work things through." Reaching out, he brushed her cheek softly with his thumb. "I don't like the way things are between us, Laura. And I don't believe you do, either."

Unconsciously, Laura swayed slightly toward him, allowing his palm to cup her jaw. "I know things have been difficult the past few months," she protested weakly, "but it's what's best — for both of us."

"I beg to differ, Miss Holt. I believe this is what's best … for both of us." He leaned forward and captured her lips with his. When she didn't resist, he moved closer, sliding his arms around her waist as she pressed against him, her own arms curling around his neck. Their lips parted, then joined again – the kiss was deeper this time. Laura moaned softly, spurring Steele to pull her even tighter, his hands wandering over her curves, caressing. His lips relinquished hers, only to begin a slow, sensuous journey down her neck, to the hollow at the base of her collarbone, then upward again, a series of light, nipping kisses that left a trail of fire in their wake. She was breathing faster, sighing as his teeth caught and gently teased her earlobe. "Laura," he whispered "I …"

A scream split the air and Laura and Steele jumped backward as a dark shape tumbled past them from above and disappeared in the roiling sea below. "My God!" Laura shouted, leaning over the rail and scanning frantically for some sign of life in the turbid wake. "Man overboard!"


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

The screaming continued, and Laura and Steele instinctively leaned over the rail of their balcony and craned their necks upward. What they saw caused Mr. Steele to grab Laura around the waist and pull her back from the rail – a large segment of the railing of the balcony above them was dangling in space, attached to the ship by a single bolt. Buffeted by the stiff breeze, it clattered against the side of the ship, then, with a squeal of tortured metal, broke away and tumbled into the dark depths below.

Above them, the screaming had subsided into a low-pitched keening. "Oh, no. Please, please somebody help me."

"Stay where you are!" Laura called. "We're coming!"

The detectives raced from their cabin and took the emergency stairs two at a time to reach the upper deck. They arrived at the door to cabin 1035 at the same time as a terrified-looking steward. The young man knocked loudly on the door, shouting for the occupant to let them in. That failing, he tried the handle of the door and found it locked.

"Don't you have a master key?" Laura shouted.

The frazzled crewman began digging frantically in his pockets.

"To hell with that!" Steele muttered and launched himself against the door once, twice, and a third time – at which there was a loud crack and the door burst open. Steele, Laura and the steward rushed into the spacious penthouse suite. It appeared to be empty, but the door to the balcony stood open. They could see a large gap where the section of railing had fallen away.

"I've got to get help," the steward gasped. He turned and ran from the cabin as Laura and Mr. Steele hurried to the door to the balcony. Peering cautiously around the open door into the darkness, they could just make out a form crouched in the corner nearest the gap.

"Hey!" Laura called. "Are you all right?"

The figure didn't move.

"Hold this," Steele said, peeling off his jacket and handing it to Laura.

"Be careful," Laura said as he stepped out onto the balcony. She held her breath as Steele flattened himself against the wall of windows and edged carefully toward the far end of the balcony. Laura heard him murmuring in soft, comforting tones, but there was no reaction from the crouched figure. When he was close enough, Steele dropped to his knees and slowly reached out to touch the figure. The effect was instantaneous – a shrill screech erupted from the terrified woman, she began to thrash and kick out at Steele. Taken off guard, he reared back and lost his balance, tumbling perilously close to the yawning gulf.

"Mr. Steele!" Laura started out onto the balcony to help him.

"Stay where you are, Laura," came his voice from the darkness. "I'm all right." His voice was strained but steady. Laura saw him begin to crawl back from the precipice, then pause near the edge of the remaining railing. A second later he resumed his slow journey toward the woman, who had again lapsed into silence. He stopped near her, but didn't touch her this time.

"Can you hear me?" Steele asked in a loud voice. There was no answer, so he continued. "It's going to be all right. I'm going to get you back into the cabin. But you have to help me help you. Understand?"

After what seemed an eternity, the woman nodded.

"Okay," Steele continued. "I'm going to stand up, then I'm going to give you my hand. I want you to hold on to my hand and stand up very slowly. All right?"

Another nod. Steele rose to his knees, then carefully to his feet. Planting himself firmly, he extended his hand toward the woman. After a few seconds, she reached out and grabbed it. Gently, Mr. Steele pulled the woman up and toward him until she was standing against him. Suddenly she wrapped her arms around his waist and squeezed. "Don't let me fall!" she whimpered.

"I won't," he reassured her. He turned so that she was on the side nearest the wall of windows. As she continued to clutch him tightly, he reached around her and placed his hands on the glass on either side of her. "We're going to take it very easy now," he said softly. When I give the word, we'll take baby steps sideways back to the door. Are you ready?"

She nodded against his chest.

"Okay. Let's go."

As Laura watched tensely, the pair began to sidle ever so slowly back toward her. "That's right," she heard Steele say. "Wee steps. There's a good lass." His voice had lost its crisp, cultured British accent, a signal to Laura that he was under great stress.

Finally they were close enough for Laura to reach out and grab the woman's arm and pull her through the door. She fell against Laura, sobbing. Behind them, Steele re-entered the cabin and shut the balcony door behind him. Laura helped the woman stagger to the bed. In the lighted cabin, Laura recognized her immediately. Gently easing her to a sitting position on the bed, Laura put her arm around her shoulders. "Shh," she whispered to the still-weeping woman. "You're safe now, Mrs. Merriwether."

Just then several crew members appeared, led by a man whose gold epaulet and decisive manner suggested he was a high-ranking officer. Behind him was another man carrying what looked like a medical bag, and two other uniformed men.

"What's going on here?" the officer demanded.

Darla Merriwether's head snapped up and she got to her feet. "My husband is dead! He fell into the ocean. Oh, my God! Corny!" Darla's legs buckled and she sank into a sobbing heap on the floor.

The ship's personnel sprang into action. At a gesture from the officer in charge, the doctor and one of the crewmen crossed to Darla, gently lifted her to her feet and half-walked, half-carried her out of the cabin. Meanwhile, the officer strode briskly to the phone on the bedside table and stabbed a couple of buttons on the keypad.

"Sir! Chief Security Officer Mulholland, reporting a possible man overboard. Presumed to have fallen from the Deck 10 penthouse balcony approximately …" He looked at Laura and mouthed, "How long?"

"I'm not sure," Laura answered. "Maybe 10 minutes."

"… approximately 10 minutes ago," Mulholland continued into the receiver. "At least one witness, who has been taken to the infirmary." He paused, listened, then added, "Yes, sir. The Coast Guard will be alerted and a search organized immediately. I'll report to the captain directly." The officer hung up the phone and turned again to Laura and Steele. "Were you two here when the alleged incident occurred?

"No," Laura answered, raising her eyebrows slightly at his use of the word _alleged_. "We were on the balcony of our cabin, directly below this one."

Steele nodded in agreement. "We heard a scream and saw him fall past us. We ran up here and found Mrs. Merriwether on the balcony. As you can see, part of the railing has fallen away. Apparently that's how Corny – Mr. Merriwether – fell."

"I think you'd both better come with me," Officer Mulholland said. "The captain will want to know everything you saw." He directed his attention to the remaining crewman. "Secure this cabin," he barked. "No one enters, and nothing is to be disturbed."

"Yes, sir."

Mulholland cast a last, serious look at the balcony, then turned and headed out the door. "Follow me," he called back in a tone that did not invite discussion. As he, Steele and Laura hurried down the passageway toward the front of the ship, there was a sudden, slight vibration under their feet and a change in the pitch of the constant hum of the engines.

"What's that?" Laura inquired.

"The captain has ordered the ship slowed in case we have to come about," Mulholland answered.

"Cornelius Merriwether, please report to the purser's desk immediately," boomed a voice from the ship's intercom.

"That doesn't seem very likely," Steele muttered to Laura.

The announcement was repeated twice more before they reached a door at the end of the passageway. It was marked Private and concealed a staircase leading up to the highest point on the ship: the large, glass-enclosed bridge. Mulholland led them into the bustling space. An older, distinguished-looking man with a shoulder full of gold bars occupied the center of the room, surrounded by and engaged in intense conversation with several other officers. Laura recognized him from his photo in the brochure as William Broadmoor, captain of the Fiesta.

"Chief Safety Officer Mulholland reporting, sir!" their guide said crisply.

The captain acknowledged his subordinate, then frowned at the sight of two civilians behind him. "Not a great time for a bridge tour, Jim," he growled.

"They were on the balcony below the penthouse when the incident occurred, sir, and on the scene when ship's personnel arrived. I thought you would want to interview them personally."

Captain Broadmoor nodded curtly, then spoke to a junior officer nearby. "No response to the page?"

"No, sir."

"Deck-by-deck search?"

"Nothing yet, sir."

The captain turned back to Laura and Mr. Steele. "Did you see the man fall?"

"Unfortunately, we did," Steele answered. "It was dark, and the whole thing happened very quickly. But yes, we both saw him hit the water."

The captain's mouth formed a grim line. He blew out sharply through his nose, paused just a second, then came to some decision. "Initiate a Williamson Turn," he barked in the direction of the first officer at the wheel. Then, to Mulholland, he ordered, "Jim, muster the search-and-rescue crew and give the Coast Guard the go to launch air support. Radio any other ships in the area to be on the look out. I'll make an announcement to the passengers when we're closing on the target area."

"Yes, sir."

"How long ago did you say this happened?" the captain asked Mulholland.

"About 25-30 minutes ago now, sir. That's our best estimate."

"I assume you've got someone checking the deck cams to narrow that down."

Mulholland nodded.

"Let's hope they pinpoint the time quickly so we know where the hell to start looking," the captain said. "There's a helluva lot of water and a helluva lot of dark out there."

As Mulholland hurried off to follow orders, the captain called after him, "And make sure every private balcony on this ship is thoroughly inspected within the hour." When the safety officer had gone, Broadmoor nodded at Steele and Laura. "You two, come with me."

He led them across the bridge to a door that opened into his personal quarters. Taking a seat behind a large, oak desk, he gestured for his guests to sit opposite him. "You are …?" he prompted.

"Remington Steele, and this is my associate, Laura Holt," Steele spoke for both of them.

The captain's eyes widened slightly. "Steele … you're some kind of detective, right?"

"Private investigator. You've heard of Remington Steele Investigations?"

"Not until this afternoon. I was talking with someone … a large, older lady … "

"Marian Peabody?"

"Yes. At the welcome aboard VIP reception. She mentioned what a big deal it was to have you part of the group. Said you are quite the celebrity back in L.A. I was expecting someone older."

"Perhaps I'm just well-preserved."

Broadmoor grunted. "Hm. Tell me what happened. Some sort of structural failure?"

"So it would seem," Steele said. "As your Officer Mulholland said, Laura and I were out on our own balcony, enjoying … er … the salt air. We heard a scream, saw something fall past us, looked up and saw a segment of railing hanging. We rushed upstairs and found Darla—Mrs. Merriwether—huddled on the balcony. Apparently she witnessed her husband's untimely plunge. Obviously, she was quite shaken."

The captain frowned. "I don't understand how the railing could fail," he said, more to himself than to them. "This whole ship was inspected to the nth degree before we set sail."

"It does seem odd," Steele agreed.

"What's going to happen now?" Laura asked.

"We'll go back to as close as possible to the place where he went in. Deploy life rings and search-and-rescue teams. Put searchlights on the water. The Coast Guard is on the way with helicopters to conduct a search from the air. Unfortunately, even in broad daylight it's like finding a needle in a haystack. In the dark? Damn near impossible."

"You don't hold out much hope of finding him alive, then?" Steele said.

"I've seen a lot of surprising, even miraculous, things happen out here," Captain Broadmoor said. "That said, this guy fell the equivalent of 10 stories. Hitting from that height, the water is like concrete. Let's just say I don't feel good about his chances."

"Too bad," Steele commented. "He was on his honeymoon."

"Did you know the man?"

Laura shook her head. "We met him at dinner tonight. He happened to be at our table."

"Notice anything strange? Did he seem depressed? Trouble with the wife?"

"Nothing obvious," Steele said. "In fact, he was quite gregarious."

"Drinking heavily?"

"He had a couple of Scotches, but didn't seem impaired. He may have had more … we, ah, left rather early."

"Anything to add?" the captain asked Laura.

"No, Mr. Steele has about covered it."

"Well, thank you both. If you think of anything else, please get in contact with Mr. Mulholland or myself." He stood and extended a hand to Steele, then Laura. "I'm sorry that a pall has been cast on your vacation."

He ushered them out of his quarters and off the bridge. Both Laura and Mr. Steele were subdued as they walked back down the passageway to the stern of the ship. Reaching the elevators to take them back down to Deck 9, they heard the captain's voice on the intercom again:

"Ladies and gentleman, it is my sad duty to inform you that a male passenger fell overboard at approximately 2200 hours. We have turned the ship and are conducting search-and-rescue efforts at this time. We ask that passengers stay clear of crew engaged in this operation, and that on-deck passengers keep an eye out for anything in the water. Further updates will be provided as events warrant."

As the elevator doors closed on them, Laura turned to Mr. Steele. "Something about this doesn't feel right."

"I agree."

She shrugged. "I guess it doesn't matter; it's in the hands of the maritime authority now. And anyway, it's not like we have evidence of foul play."

"Nooo," Steele said casually. "Well, except perhaps for this." He pulled something from his trouser pocket and held it up for Laura to examine. It was a large, threaded bolt.

"Where did you get that?"

"I picked it up on the balcony. It's one of the bolts from the segment of railing that failed."

"And …?"

He held it between his thumb and forefinger and lifted it closer to the overhead light. "See this?" He pointed with his other hand to one end of the bolt. "This didn't come loose. This bolt was cut nearly through. It must have broken off when Corny leaned on the railing."

"The railing was tampered with? Why didn't you inform the captain?"

"You heard the man's leading questions. It's in the cruise line's interest that Corny's death be attributed to his own negligence or perhaps suicide. I have a feeling if I turned this over to the crew, it would conveniently disappear. I think I'll hold on to it until we reach port. Then I'll hand-deliver it to the authorities."

They had reached the door of their cabin. "So what does this mean?" Laura commented. "Negligence or deliberate sabotage by a member of the crew or another passenger? If so, this was no accident. We're talking about murder."

"Never let it be said I'm not a man of my word, Laura," Steele said as he opened the door and followed her inside. "I promised you excitement on this cruise."

"Not exactly what I had in mind, Mr. Steele."


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

Laura and Mr. Steele immediately conducted a careful inspection of their own balcony railing, finding it sound. They stood for a long while, watching the distant lights of rescue boats crisscrossing the inky expanse of sea around the ship while three Coast Guard helicopters circled overhead. Large spotlights played ceaselessly over the rough sea. Both Steele and Laura knew it was a hopeless cause. Finally, the futility of the effort depressed them enough to send them back inside.

Moments later a crewman knocked on the door and asked to conduct a "routine cabin check." They watched the man make a cursory show of examining the bathroom fixtures, the light fixtures and the lock on the door before spending rather more time on the balcony, testing the railings and examining the bolts holding them in place.

"It's a little late to be doing this, isn't it?" Laura inquired innocently. "Is this standard procedure?"

The crewman looked uncomfortable. "Uh, no ma'am. That is, it's not standard … but not unusual, either. Whenever we have an incident like we had this evening – I'm sure you heard we had a man overboard – it's our policy to do an immediate review of public areas and cabin facilities to reassure our guests of Festival Cruise Line's commitment to their safety and security."

"I see. How did this person happen to fall overboard? Was he in his cabin?"

The crewman's face reddened. "Um, no, I believe he was on the Lido deck. He might have been reaching over the rail, or … often in these situations, the passenger is impaired, ma'am. Of course, I can't say for sure that's what happened in this case."

The detectives exchanged glances. "Well, it's nice to know Festival Cruises maintains such exacting standards," Laura remarked dryly.

After the man left, Laura gave Steele a significant look. "Seems you were right about a cover up," she said. "Do they really expect passengers to believe that cockamamie story about standard procedures?"

Steele chuckled. "At this time of night, Laura, every other passenger on this ship apart from us is either asleep, making love or _impaired_. The only thing they'll care about is getting the inspection done as quickly as possible so they can get back to whatever it was they were doing."

"Hm. I think all the rest of the passengers have the right idea," Laura said.

"Which option did you have in mind, Miss Holt?" Steele said with a slight wag of his eyebrows.

She rolled her eyes. "If you really don't know, Mr. Steele, I believe _you_ are impaired."

Moments later Laura emerged from the bathroom, having changed into her nightgown and robe. The room was in semi-darkness, illuminated only slightly by the sea of stars outside the cabin. Mr. Steele had already donned his pajamas and was lying on the far edge of the bed, as close to the edge as possible without falling off. Laura tiptoed to the bed, slipped under the covers and settled as close to her edge of the bed as Steele was to his. There was a good four feet of no-man's land between them.

Laura lay awake, turning the events of the evening over in her mind. She was still irritated with Mr. Steele for the finagle with the raffle tickets. But knowing he was that desperate to be alone with her … that the distance between them since Cannes was as difficult for him as it was for her …

Well, she had to admit it felt good. And thatthought inevitably brought back the memory of being on the balcony with him. Of how he had kissed her, caressed her, made her heart pound and her pulse race and her body ache for him. Oh, yeah … _that_ felt good. Good and familiar and _right_. As hard as she had tried to forget how sweet it was to be in his arms, a single moment like that one on the balcony brought it all crashing back.

She missed him. And she was honest enough to admit that she agreed to go on this cruise knowing full well he would try to get back in her good graces – and that part of her wanted him to. That was the part of Laura that woke up each morning with a smile on her face, anticipating seeing him at the office. _That _Laura had taken to wearing her hair loose, even though it often got in the way while she worked, because she knew he liked it best that way. _That_ Laura laughed more every day than she had in the five years before she met him, even though his jokes were mostly bad. And _that_ Laura was dying to cross the distance between him and her in this bed, wrap herself around him and do what all those passengers who weren't sleeping or impaired were up to.

But _that_ Laura wasn't in charge. Instead, sensible, independent Laura would cling to the mattress edge until morning — and when the sun rose, she would pretend that moment on the balcony had never happened.

Both Lauras sighed heavily and stared into the darkness.

"Are you awake?" Mr. Steele's voice whispered across the gulf.

"Mmm hmm." She rolled over onto her back.

"Me, too."

"Thinking about what happened to Corny?"

"Yep," she lied.

"Me, too."

Laura rolled again, this time onto her side facing him. He simultaneously did the same, so they were looking at each other across a distance of three feet.

"I've been considering who had the most to gain from Merriwether's death," Steele said. "Plus, someone once told me the basic rule of detection: the last person to see the victim is either a superb witness or an excellent suspect."

Laura smiled, recalling when she'd schooled him in that very principle while investigating her old boss Alan Grievey's death. "Darla Merriwether fits both criteria," she answered. "We know she was a witness — but can we trust her version of events?"

"Hmm. Maybe old Corny didn't pick 'em as well as he thought he did."

Laura propped herself up on one elbow. "It occurs to me that we heard Darla scream when he went over the side, but I don't recall hearing him cry out. Did you?"

"No. But I have to admit I was a little preoccupied at the time."

Laura was glad it was too dim for him to see her blush. "I suppose he could have been too surprised to scream," she said. "Or maybe he wasn't in a state to make a sound."

"You mean he could have been unconscious."

"Or already dead." The implication hung in the air.

"But would Darla be strong enough to push him over the side?" Steele said after a moment. He followed her lead and hoisted himself up on one elbow. "And what about the railing? It took a lot of power behind a heavy-duty tool to cut through those bolts. Somehow the Widow Merriwether doesn't strike me as the bodybuilder type."

"Maybe she had an accomplice." Laura plopped onto her back again. "Or maybe she had nothing to do with it. She certainly seemed convincingly hysterical on that balcony."

"If not the wife, who? Some nut with a grudge against the cruise line?"

"Or possibly the ex-wife — Joanne, wasn't it? — paid someone to do it," Laura mused. "Of course, if it was me, I'd want the satisfaction of pushing him over the side myself, and the little homewrecker with him."

Steele chuckled. "Good to know. Er, you understand I've only been flirting with Marian Peabody to drum up business, right?"

"Ha! That's a likely story," she answered, grinning. "But I can't blame you. Marian is … interesting … in her own, very special way. And you are a _man_, after all."

"Still, I'll try to control myself."

"Good."

They lapsed into silence for a few moments. Then Laura whispered, "I hope he _was _dead when he went over. I can't imagine what it would be like — falling through that darkness into the sea. Perhaps watching the ship sail out of sight as you slowly succumb to your injuries, or exposure … or worse."

"Ah," Steele said, catching her meaning. "Jaws. Roy Scheider, Richard Dreyfus, 1975, Universal Pictures. Admittedly, not a pleasant way to go."

"I admit Cornelius Merriwether didn't make a positive first impression on me. But I wouldn't wish what happened to him on anyone."

"Indeed."

"Goodnight, Mr. Steele," Laura said softly.

"Goodnight, Miss Holt."

Early morning sunlight was streaming through the windows when Laura began to stir. Perhaps it was the salt air or the gentle rocking of the ship over the calm swells, but Laura had slept better than she had in a long time. As she drifted from slumber toward wakefulness, Laura felt warm, cozy and utterly relaxed. In fact, she felt wonderful. Still drowsy, she lightly caressed the muscular arm wrapped around her torso and nestled closer against Mr. Steele, smiling as his soft breathing tickled her ear.

Suddenly her eyes were wide open. Aghast, she realized that some time during the night both she and Mr. Steele had ventured from the margins of the mattress, ending up spooning in the middle of the bed. Laura tensed, not knowing how to disengage herself from this awkward situation without waking Mr. Steele and making it ten times worse.

Very carefully, she tried to slide his arm from around her. At her touch, Mr. Steele murmured in his sleep and snuggled her even closer. "Mmmmm." His face found the crook of her neck, and nuzzled it. Laura gasped, instantly, powerfully aroused by his nearness, his strong, masculine scent, his lean body against hers.

She knew she needed to get out of the bed. Right now! But her eyes closed as his hand on her flank drifted leisurely over the silkiness of her nightgown, finally coming to rest on the soft swell of her breast. Laura fought to control her breathing as every nerve in her body seemed to sizzle with electricity. She was only too aware that Mr. Steele, though still asleep, was responding to the full body contact as well.

A wave of desire swept over Laura, turning off all rational thought. She wanted this … wanted _him_. Surrendering, she groaned and twisted toward him, needing to feel more of him, taste all of him, give in to the hunger that had been growing in her since the day he walked into her office claiming to be Ben Pearson. Facing him now, she pulled his arm over her and pressed tightly against him, desperate to be captive to the pressure of his body on hers.

"Mmph … umm .. wha- bloody hell!" Steele's eyes flew open and he flung himself backward, rolling over the side of the bed and landing with a thump on the floor. His tousled head peered over the mattress at Laura, a horrified expression on his gorgeous face. "God, Laura. I'm so sorry," he blustered. "I-I was asleep, I swear. I didn't know what I was doing. I would never-"

"Forget about it," Laura interrupted, rolling over and into a sitting position facing away from him. She snatched up her robe from the end of the bed and hastily donned it, pulling the sash tight.

She felt the mattress sink behind her as Steele climbed back on the bed. There was a light tug on her sleeve and she heard him murmur, "Seriously, Laura. I need to be sure you know I would never force myself on you."

"I said, forget about it," she said more sharply than she intended. She got to her feet. "You were – _we _were asleep. Nothing happened. It's fine. I'm going to take a shower." Avoiding looking back at him, she scrambled into the bathroom and closed the door.

Moments later, she rested her still-burning cheek against the cool tile of the shower as the stream of lukewarm water washed over her. She felt humiliated and slightly ill. How could she let herself get so out of control? Worse, she allowed Mr. Steele to think it was he who made the advances. She felt a stab of guilt, remembering his remorse. But how could she admit that she had practically ravished him in his sleep? Well, she'd certainly proven him right: she _couldn't_ trust herself in a bed with him.

Laura dawdled in the bathroom as long as she could reasonably justify, dreading to face him. "Get a hold of yourself," she told herself finally. "You're not a child. And adults don't hide out in bathrooms to avoid embarrassing situations." She took a deep breath, checked her appearance in the mirror and prepared to meet her Waterloo.

But when she stepped out of the bathroom, Mr. Steele was gone.


	6. Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

Laura found Steele sitting in a deck chair on the Deck 6 sun terrace, a cup of tea on his knee and a morose look on his face. He was staring out to sea as she approached, seemingly lost in thought. His gaze flickered briefly to her as she pulled up another chair beside him, then he stared down into his teacup as if trying to read some portent there.

"I was surprised to find you gone when I got out of the shower," Laura ventured quietly.

"I've been to the purser's desk to see about getting a separate cabin," he said bleakly.

"That's really not necessary, Mr. Steele."

"Whether it's necessary is a moot point; it seems the ship is fully booked. No vacancies."

"Good."

He looked at her in puzzlement. "I can't believe you're this … calm."

"I can't believe you're this rattled."

"A gentleman doesn't take advantage of a lady when she's sleeping," he said, a note of disgust in his voice.

"You _are_ a gentleman. And you didn't." Laura paused, wrestling with whether to tell him what really occurred in bed that morning. She decided it would only make things more awkward. Instead, she leaned toward him and laid a hand gently on his forearm. "Look. We're two adults, with certain natural … instincts. We were asleep, we ended up in close physical proximity, and nature took its course. Embarrassing, perhaps, but hardly shocking. And besides — nothing actually _happened_. So let's just put it behind us, okay?"

He gave her a slight smile. "You never cease to surprise me, Miss Holt."

"Sometimes I surprise myself, Mr. Steele." She smiled back at him, then scanned the horizon. "Looks like we're back on course. They must have abandoned the search."

He nodded. "About 4:00 am, according to the purser. He was pretty tight-lipped about the situation, but I did find out when I was inquiring about cabin availability that our grieving widow has been installed in the Commodore's Suite, which is usually reserved for cruise line bigwigs. They're obviously determined to keep her as _comfortable_ as possible."

"Well, sure," Laura said. "A private Jacuzzi more than makes up for a dead husband."

"In this case, it just might."

"Darla does seem to be our prime suspect." She smiled. "Here we are, talking as if we're on a case. Whether Darla killed her husband or not is really none of our business. Once we get back to Miami, I'm sure there will be a full investigation to find out what really happened."

"Yes … but tell me you're not dying to find out first."

"I'm a detective, Mr. Steele," she answered. "Curiosity is …"

"… another one of those natural instincts, Miss Holt?" He wagged his eyebrows saucily.

She narrowed her eyes at him, but a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "I suppose it would be good publicity for the agency if we solved this thing."

He gave her a wink. "Beats shuffleboard."

On their way to the breakfast buffet, Laura and Steele were met by a distraught Marian Peabody. "Oh, Remington, have you heard the awful news?" she exclaimed. "Poor, poor Corny!"

"A terrible tragedy," Mr. Steele agreed.

"I would never have believed someone like Cornelius Merriwether would take his own life," Marian continued.

Laura glanced sidelong at Steele. "Is that what happened?"

"So they're saying." She stepped closer and looked around conspiratorially. "I also heard that Corny and that _woman_ had a knock-down, drag-out before it happened. Apparently he found out she'd been entertaining other men practically since the day of the wedding." She looked smug. "Old habits die hard, I suppose."

"The Merriwethers were seen arguing?" Laura pressed.

Marian waved a hand indifferently. "Seen, or heard … I'm not sure. But it doesn't surprise me a bit. About that tramp, I mean. I suppose it would be enough to drive a man to despair, finding out he's been taken in by a scheming little golddigger. Well, at least if it was suicide she won't get the insurance money."

"My husband certainly did _not_ commit suicide."

Laura, Steele and Marian were startled by Darla Merriwether's sudden appearance at Laura's elbow. Laura wondered how much of Marian's catty monologue the widow had heard.

"Corny would never have killed himself," Darla said sharply, adjusting her designer sunglasses. She gestured at Steele and Laura. "These two know exactly what happened. There were there."

Marian, whose face had turned crimson upon seeing Darla, now looked visibly shocked. "You saw Corny fall off the ship?" she snapped. "Why didn't you say something?"

"We weren't actually eyewitnesses," Steele said in a conciliatory tone. "As you know, our stateroom is directly below the penthouse. We did hear Mrs. Merriwether scream, and Corny fell past us, but we didn't see him go over."

Darla stiffened and shot Steele an indignant look. "It sounds as if the cruise line's lawyers have already been busy greasing palms," she accused. "You know full well that Corny's death was the result of negligence. You saw it with your own eyes. The balcony railing was defective!"

"I can assure you that neither Mr. Steele nor myself have had our palms or any other parts of our anatomy greased, Mrs. Merriwether," Laura said icily. "When requested, we will of course make a full statement to the proper authorities."

"See that you do," Darla said. "Festival Cruise Lines is going to pay through the nose for what they did to my Corny – not to mention my pain and suffering." Shooting a parting glare at Marian, she pranced off in the direction of the Promenade shopping area.

"Doesn't look like she's suffering _too_ much," Marian sniffed.

"She does seem to be bearing up well," agreed Mr. Steele. "Still, we all grieve in our own ways."

"Well, this cruise certainly isn't turning out anything like I expected," Marian said. "First this terrible business with Corny, and now I've got to go to the purser's office to clear up some misunderstanding about our onboard credit. What a nuisance!"

The detectives watched her stalk away. "Well, that was … interesting," Laura commented after she was out of earshot. "I notice Darla wasn't exactly overflowing with gratitude for you saving her life."

"Hmmm. The ship's personnel disseminating rumors that Peabody killed himself. The widow making noises about negligence and compensation. Better strap on your life vest, Miss Holt," Steele said. "I have a feeling the seas are going to get a little rough around here."

After lunch they quietly climbed the stairs up to the penthouse, thinking to do a little furtive searching for crime scene clues. But they found yellow crime tape across the door and a burly crewman stationed outside.

"Can I help you?" the man asked gruffly when they appeared in the passageway outside the cabin. "This area is off limits to passengers."

Laura giggled and stumbled against Mr. Steele. She threw an arm around his neck and looked up at him with a goofy grin. "See, baby, I told you thish wazz'n our floor," she slurred. She looked at the guard and offered him an exaggerated salute. "We're shorry, captain. I'm afraid my husband has been …" She mimed tossing back a drink, then hiccupped loudly, covered her mouth and snickered between her fingers. "… and I might have had a drinky-poo, too."

"Two?" Steele drawled, getting into the act. "Commander, this woman has had shix for every one of mine. I married a … a … slush!"

Laura laughed loudly and gave Steele a punch to the gut. "Slush! That's a good one!" She lay her head on his chest. "Come on, baby. Let's find our cabin. I'm feeling … frishky!" Laura collapsed in giggles again as Steele bent awkwardly and scooped her off her feet into his arms.

"We're on our honeymoon," Steele called back to the bemused crewman as he pushed the door to the stairwell open and carried Laura, laughing and kicking her feet, through it.

"Quick thinking, Miss Holt," Steele said when the door had closed behind them.

"Thank you," she answered with a little bow of her head. When he kept grinning at her, she added, "Um. You can put me down now."

"Oh. Yes." He set her gently on her feet.

"Looks like we're not getting into that cabin," Laura muttered as they descended to their own deck.

"Hmm," Steele mused behind her. "Maybe if I stood on the railing of our balcony, I could grab the edge of the penthouse balcony and pull myself up."

Laura stopped, turned, folded her arms and stared up at him. "Good idea. Even better, you can use the rocket-powered grappling hook that Q gave you before we sailed, Mr. Bond."

Steele looked wounded. "I resent your lack of faith in my athletic prowess," he griped. "And by the way, I'd make a damned fine James Bond."

She rolled her eyes. "In your dreams, Mr. Steele."


	7. Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

Clad in a colorful sarong, sunglasses and a floppy canvas beach hat, Laura picked her way carefully among the bronzed bodies supine on lounge chairs on the pool deck. She carried a large tote bag that contained sunscreen, a towel and Pamela Johns' latest potboiler, _The Case of the Sinister Secretary_. Spotting Marian Peabody, Carolyn Galloway, Sarah Morgan and Lydia Huntington seated around an umbrella table, Laura pulled the brim of her hat further over her face. As unobtrusively as possible, she selected a lounge chair a short distance from the women, pulled out the paperback and pretended to read.

Half an hour later Mr. Steele appeared on deck. He was wrapped from neck to calves in a maroon terrycloth robe, cinched closed over his hairy chest. Like Laura, he had donned protective headgear – in his case, an oversized sombrero. Startlingly, his nose glowed an eerie white from a thick slathering of zinc oxide cream. Laura watched heads turn as he passed along the row of deck chairs – and for once, it wasn't in admiration of his extraordinary handsomeness.

"Cunning disguise, Mr. Steele," Laura muttered as he claimed the lounger next to hers. "Which one are you supposed to be: the Cisco Kid or his faithful sidekick, Pancho?"

He gave her a blank look. "I assume this is some arcane reference to one of those old television programs you're so devoted to?"

She laughed. "Now you know how I feel."

"If you're referring to me favoring you occasionally with my encyclopedic knowledge of film, I hardly think it's comparable, Laura. First of all, _films_ are a form of art, while television is, as your Edward R. Murrow so articulately put it, the 'opiate of the people.'"

"I see."

"And secondly," he continued, warming to his dissertation, "whereas my film references have often provided critical insights that have helped us crack a case, those TV facts and stats you spout are just meaningless trivia. Actually, I begin to suspect you use them to confuse me and make me look foolish. Tsk, Laura. You're better than that."

"Oh, Mr. Steele," Laura responded innocently. "I can't even imagine _you_ looking foolish." She playfully flicked the fringed brim of his sombrero.

"It was all they had left in the gift shop," Steele explained glumly.

"It's … extraordinary. Strikes just the note of inconspicuousness we were aiming for," Laura teased. "And it coordinates so well with your …" - she gestured vaguely over his voluminous robe – "… cassock? Did you steal that thing from the Abbott of Costello?"

"Fair skin," Steele said defensively. "I burn very easily."

"Yes, I'd say you're doing a slow burn already." Chuckling, she reached over and used her index finger to plough a furrow in the cream down the bridge of his nose.

"Great. Now I'm going to have a tan line," he retorted, grabbing her hand and forcing her cream-covered finger to draw a glossy mustache under her own nose. "Very nice. Now _you_ can play Pancho."

"Gracias, Senõr Seesko," Laura said in an over-the-top Mexican accent.

They sat back in their deck chairs and grinned at each other. After a moment, Steele nodded in the direction of the hen party at the adjacent table. "Hear anything useful?"

She shook her head. "As expected, they've been talking non-stop about the Merriwethers, but nothing that sheds any light on what happened. I did learn that Corny met Darla nine months ago while on a business trip to Vegas. He set her up in a swank apartment two weeks later, and filed for divorce from Joanne a month after that."

"Classy."

"Mmm hmm. Naturally, the ladies' loyalties lie with the spurned wife, though apparently she took up with her yoga instructor shortly after Corny moved out."

"A veritable Peyton Place," Steele commented.

"Aha! A TV reference!" Laura said gleefully. "My mother used to watch that soap all the time."

Steele gave her a pitying look. "Oh, Laura. I know nothing of this _soap_ you refer to, but it can only have been a pale imitation of the original Peyton Place. Lana Turner, Hope Lange, Lloyd Nolan. 20th Century Fox, 1957."

"You just can't let me have even one, can you, Mr. Steele?"

"I know how competitive you are, Laura. Would you really want me to take it easy on you?"

"You better not!" she retorted. "In fact, if I thought you—wait a minute." She clutched his forearm and cocked her head toward the women's table. "Something's happening."

The ladies, who had been playing cards and sipping tall drinks, had been interrupted by a waiter. He bent and quietly said something to Sarah Morgan. "What?" they heard her say loudly. "That's ridiculous. Check again." Whatever the waiter's response was, it wasn't what Mrs. Morgan wanted to hear. "Fine," she said even more indignantly. "My husband will take care of this." She pushed her chair back from the table and stalked off. After a moment of whispered conversation among them, the other women also dispersed.

Laura held her book in front of her and Steele pulled his hat down over his face as Marian Peabody approached, but the woman paused beside Laura's chair anyway. "Laura! And … er … Mr. Steele?"

Steele lifted his sombrero sheepishly. "Fair skin," he explained.

"Lovely afternoon, isn't it?" Laura said.

"I suppose," Marian fretted, "but it's beginning to seem like this whole cruise is cursed."

"We couldn't help noticing that Mrs. Morgan left your table rather suddenly," Laura noted. "I hope nothing is wrong."

Marian sighed. "Apparently the Morgans are having the same sort of mix-up with their onboard credit that Martin and I are."

"Oh?"

"Yes. It's terribly embarrassing. We booked the cruise using the account we had with Corny's investment firm. Now the ship is claiming they can't access our funds. Of course, Corny would have been able to clear up this mess instantly, but he's no longer with us."

"It's an unfortunate coincidence – Corny's death and this misunderstanding with your funds," Steele noted with a significant look at Laura.

"Isn't it, though? As I said, it's like this ship is cursed."

Steele squinted into the bathroom mirror and frowned. "Laura, I think I got a burn out there," he called over his shoulder. He placed a finger on the reddened bridge of his nose, pressed gingerly, and winced. "Yep. Definitely burned." He moseyed out into the main room of the cabin, where Laura was inserting bobby pins to secure her sophisticated up-do. She was already dressed for dinner, this time in a red satin, knee-length dress and matching pumps. Steele was wearing his navy suit, and now tucked a red handkerchief in the breast pocket. He walked over to Laura and stood beside her in front of the wall mirror. "We make an elegant couple, if I do say so myself," he said.

She smiled, then turned and adjusted his tie. "Well, this spoils the effect slightly … Rudolph." She tapped him lightly on the tip of his red nose. He took advantage of her proximity to place his hands lightly on her waist.

"Wounded in the line of duty, Laura," he said, dipping his head closer to hers. "Surely I deserve comfort, not mockery." He touched his lips lightly to hers. She began to respond, then pulled back slightly and placed a palm on his lapel.

"We'd better get going or we'll miss our dinner seating." She stepped away from him to pick up her clutch from the bed.

"Think we'll make it past the appetizer tonight?" Steele said, holding the cabin door open for her.

"That depends, Mr. Steele," she said as she stepped past him into the passageway. "Have you committed any other underhanded acts of charity you forgot to mention?

"Not to worry, Laura. I've given up good deeds," he assured her. "As far as I'm concerned, those orphans can learn their equestrian skills on the mean streets, like I did. Builds character."

It was a subdued group gathered around the table at dinner. Two of last night's couples – the Pollards and the Morgans – were absent. And of course the Merriwethers' chairs were also vacant. Marian Peabody was in her place, but her husband Martin, she explained, was meeting with the purser to try to work out the "fuss and bother" with their credit account.

Conspicuously, the Merriwethers' names were not mentioned around the table. Instead, the handful of diners discussed the weather, tomorrow's shore excursions on Nassau and that evening's "champagne memories" dance in the ballroom. Laura and Steele stuck it out through dessert, then politely excused themselves.

"Care for a moonlight stroll?" Steele asked as they left the dining room.

"It is a lovely evening," Laura answered. They turned their steps toward the Promenade Deck.

The breeze was freshening and wispy clouds scudded across the sky as they meandered along the ship's perimeter.

"The dinner parties seem to be getting smaller," Laura commented. "If this keeps up, we'll be a table for two by the end of the cruise."

"What a delightful notion."

She shot him a wry look. "Hm. I'm beginning to believe Marian's theory that this ship is cursed."

"Or perhaps haunted by Corny's vengeful ghost?"

Laura shrugged. "Maybe. I've heard the Queen Mary is haunted."

"There's a venerable tradition of spectral ships and doomed voyages," Steele said. "I remember once in a tavern on Naxos, an old salt told me of his encounter with a sea hag one foggy night off the straits of Gibralter-" His tall tale was cut short by a dig to the ribs from Laura.

"Do you see what I see?" she whispered.

About 20 yards ahead of them walked a slim figure in a flowing, light-colored dress. Even in the dim light, a cascade of bright, copper-colored tresses identified her at once.

"Not exactly a sea hag, but ominous nonetheless," Steele said quietly.

"You don't think she's planning to do something rash? Maybe she's more grief-stricken than she appeared."

They quickened their steps slightly, prepared to make a dash toward her if she headed for the rail. Instead, she turned into a brightly lit doorway. Reaching it themselves a minute later, they realized Darla had entered the Sapphire Seas Ballroom. Several dozen couples swirled around the dance floor to the strains of a tuxedo-clad ensemble playing "Sentimental Journey." Darla skirted the tables ringing the floor and sat down at a small table close to the band.

"I wouldn't have pegged her for a Big Band aficionado," Steele commented.

"Maybe she's hoping to meet her next _true love_."

"You're a born romantic, Laura."

They strolled to an empty table with a view of the widow and ordered drinks. Over the course of the next 20 minutes, they kept a surreptitious eye on Darla and listened to a succession of frothy old-time favorites. When the orchestra struck up "Love Is a Many-Splendored Thing," Steele stood and offered his hand to Laura. The glamorous young couple made a marked contrast to the elderly pairs around them; Laura couldn't help but remember another evening, more than two years ago, when she'd danced in Mr. Steele's arms in the Golden Lady Ballroom. She'd been mourning the downfall of her mentor, Eliot Walsh, and Mr. Steele had been surprisingly supportive. She hadn't known him well then, and despite her attraction to the man, his infuriating refusal to share anything about his past or true identity kept her guard up.

Since then, he hadn't been much more forthcoming. But who he was before had somehow become much less important than who he was now. Patiently, inexorably, he had chipped away at her defenses. She found, gradually, that she trusted him. Liked him. And, especially after Murphy and Bernice left, relied on him. She didn't realize how much until Eldon Veckmer destroyed her home and took away everything that made her feel safe and secure. She had felt so lost and vulnerable … and Mr. Steele had been there. Laura smiled at the memory of entering her new apartment and finding Nero, a rose, and a grand piano to welcome her home.

"Is it the music or my twinkle toes?"

Startled, Laura looked up into Steele's bemused face. "What?"

"You were smiling."

She clasped her hands behind his neck. "I enjoy dancing."

"Even with me?"

"Always with you."

Steele smiled and pulled her a little closer. "The feeling is mutual, Miss Holt," he whispered in her ear.

The orchestra segued into "Moonlight Serenade" and Laura rested her cheek on his shoulder. He smelled good: a delicious mix of some musky cologne and his own natural scent. Laura sighed and let her eyes drift closed, lulled by the steady throb of his heartbeat under his lapel.

When "Moonlight Serenade" ended, the couples around them stepped apart and clapped politely. Reluctantly, Steele and Laura separated and as the bandleader announced a 15-minute set break, they returned to their table and their surveillance. Finally, their patience was rewarded. While most of the band members chatted and smoked, the detectives observed a young trumpet player nod slightly to Darla, then exit through a door near the stage. After a moment, Darla got up and followed him. Steele and Laura were only a minute behind.

The door led back out onto the Promenade Deck. It had fully clouded over now, and the deck was swathed in shadow. Darla and the musician were nowhere in sight. "Probably in some dark corner, necking," Steele said.

"Unless he's a slumming trust fund baby, that kid doesn't seem like Darla's type," Laura answered.

They walked quietly, side by side, scanning the recesses along the deck. Laura was about to suggest they give up and go back to their cabin when she felt Steele's hand lightly press the small of her back. "There," he whispered.

Darla and the trumpeter were indeed concealed in a dark niche, but they weren't in a clinch. Instead, they appeared to be engaged in an intense conversation. Steele and Laura watched Darla reach into her handbag, withdraw something and hand it to the young man. They moved further into the shadows, and when Laura and Steele crept stealthily closer, they were surprised to find the niche empty.

"Where did they go?" Steele whispered.

Laura shrugged – then suddenly grabbed Steele by the lapels, twisted him against the deck rail, threw her arms around his neck and kissed him passionately. Surprised, he didn't respond for a few seconds … but soon Laura felt his hands reach around her and his lips press against hers. Demanding. Desperate. His mouth moved over Laura's, urging her lips open. Gaining entrance, his tongue slipped tentatively between her teeth. She heard him groan softly as the kiss deepened, her tongue now meeting his in a slow, teasing dance. His hands cupped her backside and he pulled her against him. She caught her breath as he shifted her slightly so that his hardness pressed against her. Instinctively she ground herself against him lightly, provoking another groan deep in his throat. Lost in a tempest of sensation, they began to explore each other almost frantically with hands and mouths.

Suddenly Laura pulled away, gasping as she grabbed the rail and sought to restore her equilibrium.

"What? What's wrong?" Steele panted, lowering his face toward hers again.

She put a hand on his lapel to hold him off, then glanced over his shoulder. He turned and looked, spying Darla Merriwether disappearing into the darkness, having passed them while they were kissing. "I didn't want her to recognize us," Laura said breathlessly.

Steele looked confused for a moment, then understanding dawned. "I might have known," he said curtly, removing her hands from his chest and stepping back from her. "Obviously the only reason you could have for … getting close … to me would be a professional tactic. All in a day's work, eh, Laura?"

She was stung by the coldness of his tone. "I'm sorry. I panicked. It was the only thing I could think of when I saw she was turning toward us."

"Right. People are hesitant to intrude on something like that," he said bitterly, echoing the explanation she'd given him back when they'd investigated the mystery surrounding the vintage Auburn speedster that was now Steele's much-loved automobile.

"Yes." Laura looked away from his steely gaze. She felt dazed, unsettled and embarrassed. "I didn't mean to … confuse you."

"No confusion," he retorted. "In fact, I've never seen things more clearly." He exhaled sharply, blowing a little puff of air in her face. "Now if you'll excuse me," he said levelly, "I have some business to attend to." He turned and walked briskly away from her.

"What kind of business?" she called after him.

He didn't answer.


	8. Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

Laura sat on the edge of the king-sized bed, wearing her nightgown and feeling miserable. It had been more than two hours since Mr. Steele had stomped off into the darkness. She figured he needed to cool down, then he'd come back to the cabin and they could talk through what happened. They _needed_ to talk. Mr. Steele rarely lost his cool … and down there, on the deck, he had been angrier than she'd ever seen him.

True, they were both passionate people, and their relationship had often been, well, volatile. On rare occasions they had genuinely clashed, but these tiffs were teapot-sized tempests that quickly blew over. Most often they engaged in simple bickering — verbal sparring that was both invigorating and, paradoxically, helped defuse the constant, simmering sexual tension between them. Until recently, most of these contests had ended up, eventually, in a fairly steamy kiss. Since Cannes, things had been different.

The tension was still there, and the bickering, but without the eventual … _release_, however incomplete it had always been, their interactions had become increasingly strained. She could have predicted that something like this would happen, a flashpoint that would cause the kettle to finally boil over.

And it was her fault.

She had always prided herself on being straightforward, honest in her feelings, and clear in her expectations. She reviled those women who used sex to manipulate and control men. Yet she knew what had happened on the deck tonight could easily be interpreted as just such a ploy. She heard her mother's disapproving voice in her mind: "There's a word for girls who get boys hot and bothered and then don't give them what they expect."

It was an ugly word, and one that could never have been applied to Laura before. And, she told herself, it wasn't _really_ deserved even in this instance. She certainly hadn't intended to lead Mr. Steele on. It was, as he himself noted, simply a ruse to avoid detection by Darla. The trouble was, it was becoming increasingly apparent that her body and her brain were not on the same team – and her body had a much stronger offense. Tonight she had been at least as turned on as her partner, and having to admit that to herself, if not to him, scared her.

But not as much as the fact that it had now been two hours and twenty-five minutes and Mr. Steele had still not appeared. She was just about to get dressed and go look for him when she heard fumbling at the lock. Her first instinct was to scramble under the coverlet and feign sleep – but that would hardly restore her faith in her integrity, much less her self-respect. So instead she folded her hands in her lap and waited for him to enter.

The door opened. He came in, shut it behind him and leaned against it, looking tired and a little unsteady. He wasn't drunk … but it was apparent he had been drinking. That was a bad sign. She'd only seen him intoxicated once; Mr. Steele was generally careful to keep his head clear.

"You're awake," he grunted.

"I was waiting for you," she answered quietly.

"No need."

"I was worried."

"No need."

"Care to tell me where you've been for the past three hours?"

"Care to tell me why you care?" His voice had a sarcastic edge that made her flinch. He saw her hurt expression and his hard glare softened slightly. "If you must know, I did a little investigating to find out who our prime suspect's favorite horn player is. Name's Tony Alliveri, by the way. Hails from Barcelona. No trust fund. Just a poor kid trying to save enough money to go to college. Wants to be a band teacher."

Steele pushed himself away from the door and walked over to the bed. He sat down and loosened his tie. "After that I had a drink. Well, two." He pulled his tie from around his neck. "Finally I tracked down our young Michael, the cabin steward, and asked him to find me this." He held up his left hand, in which he held a plastic-wrapped package.

"What is it?"

He pulled off the wrapping, and Laura saw it was a tightly wound spindle of rope, the sort used to tie off sails on small vessels. Steele found the end of the coil and began unspooling it, letting it drop in loops and whorls onto the floor in front of him. He seemed very focused on the task.

"Planning to do a little fishing?" Laura joked lamely.

Ignoring her, he picked up the end of the rope from the floor, walked to the door of the balcony and tied the rope securely to the handle. Then he crossed the room, pulling the rope taut behind him, and knotted the other end to the cabin door. The rope thus stretched the width of the cabin, bisecting the bed at a height of about 18 inches.

"It Happened One Night," Steele muttered. He opened the bottom drawer of the wood cabinet and pulled out a lightweight blanket. "Clark Gable, Claudette Colbert, Columbia Pictures, 1934." He opened up the blanket and began folding it over the rope along the length of the bed. "When Gable and Colbert are forced to share a hotel room, he erects a Wall of Jericho to protect her modesty and preserve her virtue."

"Very inventive. But this reenactment is unnecessary."

"Tonight I could agree with you. I believe your virtue has never been safer. Still … this will prevent any misunderstandings." He finished hanging the blanket and smoothed it along the length of the rope.

"We need to talk, Mr. Steele."

He fixed her with a long, cool stare. "No, Miss Holt. We do not. Not now." With that, he rounded the bed, went into the bathroom and closed the door. She waited a long while for him to come out. Finally, sighing, she crawled under the covers on her side of the Wall of Jericho and turned out the light.

"_The child is too young for this!" _

Laura recoiled from her mother's angry expression and bitter words, clutching her Daddy's pants leg more tightly.

"Let's not make a scene, Abigail." Daddy's voice was low and calm, like always. "Laurie isn't afraid. She wants to go. Don't you, peanut?"

In fact, Laura _was_ afraid. She glanced up at the giant metal monstrosity with its tangle of arms and blinking lights. It made a loud noise. Laura didn't like loud noises. But she knew what her Daddy wanted to hear. "I'm not scared," she whispered tremulously. "I want to go."

"There! You see, Abigail?" Daddy said triumphantly. "You may have mollycoddled Frannie into being afraid of her own shadow. But Laurie's got spunk."

Laura basked in the warmth of her father's praise. She felt proud that he thought she was brave – even if it wasn't true.

"Fine." Abigail's tone was cold. "Well, when you do get scared, just don't come crying to me," she admonished Laura. "And if she gets sick, _I_ won't be the one to clean it up." This last was to Daddy.

Daddy ignored her – he did that a lot these days – and scooped Laura up in his arms. "I knew Daddy's girl would want to ride," he whispered in her ear. "You're going to love it!" He carried her past the gate and set her down on the soiled, vinyl-covered seat at the end of one of the mechanical beast's tentacles. Sitting down next to her, he fastened the seatbelt over them. A seedy-looking carny came around to tug roughly on the seatbelt, making sure it was secure, then pulled a metal bar over their heads and onto their laps. Laura grabbed it with both hands; it felt sticky.

"Here we go!" Daddy said as the machine began to move. It was slow and easy at first, the tentacle they rode on lifting gently up and up until Laura could see the whole fairgrounds below her. She gripped the bar tighter and was glad when Daddy put his arm around her waist and snuggled her close to him. Laura was afraid of heights, but she hadn't told Daddy that, or even Frances. Laura was Daddy's brave soldier, and soldiers didn't cry when they were scared.

Their car paused briefly, then suddenly plummeted downward. Laura couldn't help screaming – but Daddy was yelling, too. After that, the world became a blur. The ride swooped and dove, bucking and twisting. Laura found herself being yanked from one side of the seat to the other. She knew she was going to be flung out – and very soon, she wished it would hurry up and happen. Hot and cold waves were washing over her. Her tummy had begun to lurch and she could taste the corn dog she'd had for lunch at the back of her throat. Laura felt tears stinging her eyes as a feeling of dread grew and grew inside her. She knew what was going to happen. She was going to disappoint Daddy. Mother would be angry, and they would fight. The whole day would be ruined, and it would be Laura's fault. She clamped her mouth shut, desperately willing the ride to end. But it went on and on. "Daddy! I need to get off!" she screamed, knowing it was already too late. "Daddy! I'm going to-"

"Laura! Laura, are you all right?"

She opened her eyes to see the dark silhouette of Mr. Steele staring down at her over the blanket divider. Buffeted by strong winds, the ship was pitching and rolling under them. "I'm going to be sick!" she blurted, rolling off the bed and staggering across the rolling floor toward the bathroom. She reached it just in time to lose the remnants of her dinner into the toilet bowl. Gasping, she sank to her knees as another wave of nausea hit. She was vaguely aware of the light snapping on, and Mr. Steele pulling her hair back from her face as she continued to retch. When the attack subsided, she sank back on the cold tile, spent and shaking. Her partner flushed the commode, closed the lid and gently lifted her to sit on it. He wet a washcloth in the sink and bent to wipe her face.

"Feeling better?" he asked softly.

She nodded — though as the ship continued to rock, her stomach advised her not to make any guarantees. Steele rinsed the washcloth and handed it back to her.

"Will you be okay here for a minute?"

She nodded again, holding the washcloth over her clammy face.

He disappeared for a moment, then returned holding her robe. He placed it around her shoulders and squatted down next to her.

"Thanks," she said, taking away the washcloth to give him a grateful look.

"Try one of these," he said, holding up a small bag that emitted a spicy scent.

"What is it?"

"Ginger candy. It will calm your stomach."

The idea of putting anything into her mouth repulsed her, but she dutifully stuck her hand in the bag, withdrew a small lozenge and placed it under her tongue. It tasted strong, but not unpleasant, and cut the lingering taste of bile in her mouth.

"I'm so embarrassed," she murmured.

"Don't be. I can guarantee you 90% of the people on this ship are doing the same thing right now."

"How come you're immune?"

He chuckled. "I wish I was. I've been sucking on these things like they're going out of style. I rarely get seasick, but this squall is enough to make even me go a little green. Those drinks I had earlier were definitely a mistake." He made a wry face.

"Ooh, don't make me laugh," she pleaded, doing just that. "It hurts my poor gut."

"Sorry." He gave her a soft, sympathetic smile. "Think you can make it back to the bed, or do you feel more secure here?"

"As long as this keeps up, I won't feel secure anyplace," she answered, "but there's nothing left in my stomach. So …" She got unsteadily to her feet. He put his arm around her shoulders and helped her negotiate the roller coaster that their cabin had become. She lowered herself to the edge of the bed and started to lay down.

"You're better off sitting up," Steele advised.

"Really? Seems more expedient to die lying down."

He laughed. "You must be feeling better. Got your sass back."

"The jury's still out." She rolled the shrinking remains of the ginger lozenge under her tongue. "I think these things actually do help. Where'd you get them?"

"Down in the gift shop. I smelled this coming on earlier and decided I'd better stock up. More effective than Dramamine, if you ask me."

"Excuse me? You _smelled_ the storm coming?"

"Just an expression. But there was a ring around the moon last night. The wind shifted directions about noon, and I saw seagulls this evening, flying low over the water."

"You've got to be kidding me."

"All tried-and-true methods of predicting the weather at sea, Laura," Steele explained. "And almost as reliable as the weather forecast that was printed in the ship's newsletter they slipped under our door yesterday morning."

"Guess I missed that."

Outside, the winds howled louder and the ship dipped and lifted in the rough seas. Dropping into the trough of a particularly large wave, the Fiesta rolled sharply to starboard, causing unsecured items in the cabin to skitter over the floor before the ship righted itself and they slid back in the opposite direction.

"Um … should we be strapping on our life vests?" Laura asked.

"Only if you're looking to make a fashion statement," Steele replied. "It seems rough, especially because we're in the back end of the ship. But as storms go, this one is fairly tame. I don't think we're in any danger, Laura."

"Hmmph. That's what the captain of the Titanic said."

"I can't be held responsible for any uncharted icebergs in the Caribbean."

The ship lurched again, and Laura clutched the side of the bed. "Wow. I really don't love this."

"Believe me, Laura, this is nothing. I experienced some storms on the Aegean that make this seem like Orson Welles climbing out of a bathtub."

"I don't even know what that means."

"But I bet you were picturing it. Took your mind off the storm for a minute, eh?"

She couldn't help smiling. "The Aegean. Is that where you got your sea legs? Serving under Captain Markos Androkos?"

"Ah, I was an old hand by the time I signed on Markos's tub. I first took ship on a rusty old freighter out of the port of Naples. I was 16 years old, but told the mate I was 18. I also told him I was a seasoned sailor. It didn't take him long to find out I was lying on both counts. But by then we were three days out into the Mediterranean. I'd spent all three of those days hanging over the rail, by the way. The captain was mad enough to throw me overboard, and at the time I wished he would. Never been so sick in my life. So you see, I am sympathetic to your plight."

"How did you get over it?"

"The mate had me swabbing decks so hard that I didn't have time to think about it. Eventually I guess my body just habituated to the constant movement."

"Hmm," Laura remarked as another swell rocked the ship. "Gotta scrub brush handy?"

"Sorry. But the sun will be up soon. It helps when you can see the horizon. A fixed point helps your brain adjust."

"Sixteen," Laura said quietly. "Young to be on your own, going to sea. You must have been scared."

"I'd been on my own for quite some time. And seen things a lot scarier than big waves and a bit of wind." Steele looked uncomfortable suddenly, as if he'd revealed too much. "Mind you," he continued hurriedly, "there was one blow off Cape Horn that put the fear of God in me."

"Oh?"

"It was on a tanker called the Pride of the Baltic. We were fully loaded with oil, making our way around the tip of South America on our way to Rio, when we were hit with a rogue wave. They estimated later it was 110 feet high. Hit us broadside and rolled the ship in the space of 30 seconds."

"My God!"

"I was below decks when she hit, and I found myself with five other crew members in an air pocket amidships. We knew the only way to survive was to make our way upward to the hull, which was now the top of the ship." He paused to make sure Laura was appropriately rapt. Satisfied, he continued. "None of us would admit it, but we all knew it was a million-to-one shot. We were literally caught between the devil and the deep, blue sea."

"But you obviously made it."

He nodded. "It was touch and go. We had to climb through tangled steel girders and avoid live electrical wiring that would have fried us in a second. The water was rising around us and we knew it was just a matter of time before a bulkhead burst and flooded the whole ship instantly. Amazingly, we reached the hull and escaped through a hatch near the stern. We were picked up by a rescue ship two days later, still clinging to the hull."

"That's really incredible," Laura said. "But you forgot the part where Shelly Winters swims underwater through the flooded engine room with a rescue line and dies of a heart attack on the other side."

Steele's face fell. "Oh."

"Really, Mr. Steele. Even _I've_ seen The Poseidon Adventure," Laura laughed.

"I suppose it's possible I may have embellished the facts of the incident slightly."

"So what really happened?"

"We ran into a gale at suppertime and I spilled a plate of beans in my lap."

Laura laughed until her sides ached. "Quite the tragedy at sea!" she gasped.

"Actually, it was," Steele sniffed. "They were my last clean pair of dungarees." He cocked his head and listened. "I think the wind is dying down. Looks like we won't need to man the lifeboats."

"Mmm, and it's getting lighter out." She smiled at Steele. "Thank you for helping me weather the storm."

"No problem." He reached over and patted her hand. "First law of the sea: sailors stick together."

"As mad as you were at me last night, I would have expected you to pitch me through a porthole."

Steele looked slightly surprised. "Oh, yeah. I was a bit put out, wasn't I?" He chuckled. "I suppose it's difficult to stay angry with someone who looks so pathetic." He brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes.

Laura looked at him a moment, then leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "You are an amazing man, Mr. Steele."

He smiled. "Ditto, Miss Holt," he said softly. "Now go shower and get dressed. There's nothing better to settle a queasy stomach than a hearty breakfast."

Laura groaned and placed a hand protectively over her midsection. "Ugh. That sounds even worse than Orson Welles in the bathtub."


	9. Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

They found the decks in shambles and crewmembers scurrying to right overturned tables and deck chairs. The squall was over, but the wind was still blowing strong enough to give the ship a perceptible shimmy. Laura sucked on another ginger lozenge and hoped Mr. Steele wasn't serious about having breakfast.

Few other passengers haunted the public areas of the ship this early morning after the storm. Laura was surprised, therefore, to see Darla Merriwether standing at the purser's desk when she and Steele entered the atrium. The widow did not look happy.

"-and I'm telling _you_, I want off this ship!" Darla leaned over the counter and snarled in the hapless crewmember's face.

"As I explained, ma'am," the young man explained with admirable patience, "the storm we encountered overnight is now bearing down on the Bahamas. Even if we did come into port at Nassau, the surf is too rough to attempt a docking, and it would certainly be too dangerous for passengers to disembark."

"What's going on?" Laura asked as they approached.

Darla turned, scowling. "We're supposed to stop at Nassau. It's in our itinerary, and I intend to hold this cruise line to the promises it made when my husband and I booked this cruise." She turned back to the beleaguered officer.

The purser was beginning to show his irritation. "I think if you check your documents, ma'am, you'll see that our itinerary is contingent on a variety of factors, including the weather, and ports of call are at the discretion of the captain, who considers the safety of the ship and its passengers in his decision."

"You just want to keep me aboard this ship and away from my lawyers until you've destroyed the evidence of your culpability. My husband is dead because of the cruise line's negligence! And I don't intend to stay on board one minute longer than I have to."

"Believe me, Mrs. Merriwether, no one is more eager to satisfy your wish to leave the ship than myself," the purser said smoothly, causing Laura to smile behind Darla's back. "However, I'm afraid you will have to endure our hospitality until we dock at Freeport tomorrow morning."

"We'll see about that!" Darla snapped. Turning on her heel, and ignoring Laura and Steele entirely, she stomped away.

"Last night's tempest, and now Tropical Storm Darla. No wonder the boat is rocking," Steele remarked.

"Of course we hate to disappoint any of our guests," the purser replied primly. He cast a baleful look in the direction Darla had disappeared. "Some more than others, however." He looked back at Steele and Laura and resumed his polite, officious smile. "What can I help you with this morning?"

"Nothing in particular," Laura answered. "Just taking an early morning constitutional – needed a bit of fresh air after last night's thrill ride." She patted her stomach and stuck her tongue out a little to signal her lingering discomfort.

The purser smiled sympathetically. "Yes, it was more of a blow than we anticipated."

"I gather we're staying well out to sea today, then?" Steele asked.

"Unfortunately, yes. We'll make a wide circuit around the Andros reef today and give the storm time to blow east. By tomorrow morning, when we arrive on Grand Bahama, it should be back to smooth sailing."

"I wonder why Mrs. Merriwether was so eager to get off this ship?" Laura remarked to Steele over the rim of her teacup. They'd found a quiet table on the forward observation deck. Taking his own advice, Mr. Steele was busy tucking into a large breakfast of eggs, sausage and pancakes. Under the circumstances, Laura thought it prudent to limit herself to dry toast and peppermint tea.

"Duty-free shopping?" Steele suggested.

"That would make more sense than the explanation she offered," said Laura. "If she really believes there's a plot to destroy evidence of negligence, you'd think she'd want to stick close by to keep an eye on things."

Steele nodded, digesting her musings along with his breakfast.

"And what's the deal with the trumpet player?" Laura continued. "What was she doing with him on deck last night? Looking for a sexual tryst or–" She stopped talking abruptly, suddenly realizing her words must certainly remind Steele of the tryst-in-the-making they had themselves last night … and his anger at being put off by her yet again. But the handsome detective seemed oblivious to the reference.

"Maybe the kid offers private lessons," he said, smiling as he used his napkin to dab at the corner of his mouth. He set the napkin next to his plate and pushed away his chair. "Coming, Miss Holt?"

"Where are we going?"

"To see if young Mr. Alliveri lets just anyone blow his horn."

Relieved that his mind seemed firmly on the case at hand, Laura followed him in the direction of the Sapphire Seas Ballroom. They found the ballroom in the same state of semi-chaos as the rest of the ship, with waiters and deckhands hurrying to put the place back in order after the storm. The bandstand seemed to have gotten the worst of it. The music stands had been toppled and lay in pieces around the semi-circular stage like fallen sarsens at Stonehenge.

Several members of the band, including Tony Alliveri, were setting the stands upright and trying to re-assemble the equipment, some of which appeared badly twisted and dented. Tony sat cross-legged in front of one such piece, a toolbox open beside him. He was using a portable grinder to delicately shave one end of a length of metal that he apparently intended to use to patch a broken mic stand.

"Looks like you've got your work cut out for you," Steele said amiably as he and Laura approached the young man. Surprised, Tony looked up from his task and smiled a little uncertainly.

"Sì, but it's not too bad," he said in a thick Spanish accent. "Will be good as new by _esta noche_ — that is, tonight."

"It seems you know your way around a toolbox," said Mr. Steele.

"My father is _carpentero_, a builder," Tony said. "I spent many summers working with him."

"You are a man of many talents," Laura said ingratiatingly. "We saw you perform last night."

"Sì, I saw you here." At the detectives' expressions of surprise, he added, "You stand out from the crowd, no?"

"I suppose we are a bit younger than your usual audience," Steele nodded.

"I was referring to your beautiful lady," Tony said, with an appreciative eye toward Miss Holt. "It's rare we see _una belleza_ on this ship. You are a lucky man, señor."

"Ahem, yes," Steele said, frowning a bit at the man's flirtatious glance. "A woman as stunning as Miss Holt is indeed rare. However, I seem to recall there was at least one other looker in the room last night. Mrs. Darla Merriwether, the woman whose husband went overboard, I think."

Tony's face assumed an uneasy expression and he quickly bent back to his task. "I could not say, sir. I was concentrating on the music."

Sensing the young man's defenses going up, Laura jumped in. "It must be frustrating for someone like you, a virile young man, on a ship full of older women," she purred. "I hope you occasionally get to … spend time … with someone a little younger."

"We are not permitted to spend time with passengers, señora," Tony answered without looking up. "And I have someone, back home in Barcelona. We will be married when I have completed my education."

"Congratulations!" Laura smiled. "Are you going to school now?"

"No, I must save money to go to university."

"I'm afraid you'll have to work a long time on this ship to afford that," Steele said. "Unless you have other sources of income?"

The boy suddenly looked up, a slightly panicky look on his face. He scrambled to his feet. "If you will excuse me, Señor, Señora. I have much to do to get ready for tonight's dance." He quickly exited through the same door he'd used last night.

"Should we follow him?" Steele asked as he disappeared.

"I don't see why not, unless you were planning to enter the canasta tournament this afternoon," Laura said, already halfway to the door.

"Nah. I'm lousy at cards," said her partner, bounding after her.

Whatever Tony Altivelli had to do to "get ready for tonight's dance," he seemed in a great hurry to get it done. Trying to follow him unobtrusively as he practically ran from deck to deck was a challenge. Fortunately, Laura had years of experience tailing suspects – and Mr. Steele's admirable stealth hinted at his own history of playing this variety of hide-and-go-seek … though Laura suspected he had most often been on the other end of the cat and mouse equation.

Ahead of them, Tony ducked through a door; upon reaching it themselves, they found it marked with a stern warning: Crew Quarters. For Passenger Use in Emergencies Only!"

"I think under the circumstances, we can take a liberal interpretation of 'emergency,'" Laura noted, pushing the door open. They found themselves at the top of a narrow staircase leading down into lowest section of the ship. The crew section was very much less luxurious than the public areas — dimly lit and musty smelling. Here in the bowels of the ship, under the water line, the noise of the engines was almost deafening and a heavy vibration hummed the air around Laura and Mr. Steele. It was also hot and rather breathless.

"Which circle of Dante's hell is this?" Steele muttered as they descended.

"Not the way I'd want to spend my summer vacation," Laura agreed. "I suspect the crew spends as much time on deck as possible."

"Let's hope. It's a little tough to remain inconspicuous down here. I wonder if they'll make us walk the plank if we get caught."

At the bottom of the stairs they found themselves in a narrow passageway with doors at short intervals on either side. Laura peeked through a porthole on the nearest door, which was marked "Laundry."

"The sea gods must have heard you," she said, grinning. "I think we've just found the answer to our little dilemma."

Steele bent to look and wrinkled his nose. "Really, Miss Holt?"

She pinched his chin between her thumb and forefinger and smiled up at him. "When in Rome, Mr. Steele …"

Moments later the pair emerged from the laundry, transformed. Laura wore a slim white skirt and a blouse with shiny, gold buttons and a gold epaulet on each shoulder. Her hair was tucked neatly under a billed cap. Mr. Steele was in the maroon jacket of a waiter. Both looked slightly wrinkled.

"Truly, Laura," Steele frowned, brushing at his attire. "I think a senior officer's uniform would be more appropriate."

"Somehow I think the crew would know who the senior officers are," Laura answered. "We're supposed to be in disguise, remember? And for that, we need to become part of the anonymous rabble on the bottom of the food chain."

Steele sighed in resignation. "If you say so. But I hardly think anyone would buy me as a waiter."

They started down the passageway. Unlike the laundry room, most of the doors were unmarked and had no portholes. Laura guessed they were the crew cabins. She frowned. "Finding Tony Alliveri down here might be more difficult than we thought. What do we do, start knocking on doors and hoping he opens one?"

"Avon calling," Steele joked.

As they continued toward the stern, the hum of the engines grew steadily louder. At last they found themselves in front of a heavy, metal door with "Engine Room: No Unauthorized Personnel" printed in bold block letters. There was a sudden noise of activity from behind them and Steele, startled, pushed Laura and himself through the door and into the engine room.

The room was vast, well-lit and crowded with huge turbines and other unidentifiable machinery. It was also very, very loud. The high-pitched squeal made Laura wince and cover her ears. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" she shouted at Steele above the din.

"SORRY," he shouted back. "I was afraid we were going to be spotted."

"So what? That's why we're wearing these," Laura hollered, gesturing to their uniforms.

"I know, I know. I was just caught off guard and –" Steele stopped talking and squinted at something over Laura's shoulder.

"What's the matter?" Laura shouted. He didn't answer, so she tugged on his sleeve until he glanced down at her. "What?" she repeated loudly.

He shook his head. "I don't know. I thought I saw something duck behind one of those turbines," he said. Laura looked in the direction of his gaze, but saw nothing.

"Probably a member of the crew," she said.

Steele still looked puzzled. "I don't think so …"

"Well, never mind. Let's get out of here before we _DO_ get caught."

"Too late." Steele was looking at something behind her.

"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING IN HERE?"

Laura turned to see a white-uniformed officer striding toward them, a scowl on his weathered face. "UH … AH … WE WERE JUST …" she floundered as the engineer loomed over her.

"CANOODLING, SIR," Steele answered, saluting sharply.

'WHAT?" The officer's shocked look mirrored Laura's.

"CANOODLING," Steele repeated. "MAKING OUT. NECKING. GETTING IT ON." He grinned sheepishly. "JUST GRABBING A BIT OF QUALITY TIME WITH MY GIRL, SIR."

"I THINK YOU KNOW BETTER THAN TO FRATERNIZE IN A RESTRICTED AREA," the officer barked. 'WHERE ARE YOUR NAMETAGS?"

"WE MUST HAVE LEFT THEM IN MY CABIN, SIR," Steele said. "WE GOT DRESSED IN A BIT OF A HURRY." He gave his eyebrows a slight waggle.

"IF YOU THINK THIS IS FUNNY, YOU ARE VERY MUCH MISTAKEN, MISTER." He pulled a notepad and pen out of his shirt pocket. "WHAT ARE YOUR NAMES? YOU'RE GOING ON REPORT."

Now it was Steele's turn to look blank. Fortunately, Laura had had time to recover her wits. "MYRTLE GROGGINS, SIR. AND THIS IS … JOHN MURRELL."

The man scribbled the names and tucked the pad and pen back in his pocket. "FINE. NOW GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE. YOU'LL BE HEARING FROM THE FIRST OFFICER. I CAN GUARANTEE YOU THIS WILL BE YOUR LAST CRUISE ON THE FIESTA."

They didn't have to be told twice. Laura and Steele practically ran out of the engine room, down the passageway, up the stairs and back out on the deck. In fact, they didn't slow down until they'd reached their cabin and thrown themselves on the bed, laughing hysterically.

"Quick thinking back there, Mr. Steele," Laura wheezed between guffaws, "though the engine room doesn't seem like the most romantic spot for a-" she grinned –"_canoodle_."

"It was the first thing that came to mind," Steele answered. "Perhaps because you look so fetching in that outfit. I never could resist a girl in uniform."

Laura propped herself up on her elbow and looked over at him. "Ahem. I believe this is your cue to congratulate me for pulling John Murrell out of my hat."

"Well done, Miss Groggins. But if you were going to choose a Bogart character, you might have selected one of his many seafaring roles. For instance, Happy Stuart, China Clipper, 1936. Or Jean Matrac, Passage to Marseilles, 1944. Rick Leland, Across the Pacific, 1942. Rip Murdock, Dead Reckoning, 1947. And of course, his unforgettable turn as Capt. Queeg on Mutiny On the Bounty, 1954."

"I'll remember that for next time. What was it you thought you saw down there, by the way?"

Steele knit his eyebrows. "I don't know. I only caught a glimpse. A shadowy figure."

"Alliveri?"

He shook his head. "Stockier. Wearing dark clothes, so not a crew member. Strange."

"So we're back to the haunted ship theory?"

Steele grunted. "At this point, that makes as much sense as anything else." A sudden thought struck him. "Laura, how are we going to get our clothes back from the crew's laundry room?"

"I'm afraid we'll have to write off those particular ensembles," Laura sighed.

"Aw. And that was my favorite Izod polo," Steele griped. "I just love those little crocodiles."


	10. Chapter 10

CHAPTER 10

Dinner that evening was an even more morose affair than last. Only two other couples, the Pollards and Tisdales, bothered to show up for the late dinner seating … and they were glum and uncommunicative. Laura did manage to pry out of them that several other couples in the group had also been notified that their accounts with Corny Merriwether's investment firm had been frozen.

"Something funny is going on with those investments," Laura noted as she and Steele walked back from the dining room. "I can't believe it's unrelated to Corny's death."

"Mismanagement of funds?" Steele offered. "That would make the suicide theory more plausible. If Merriwether knew there was trouble — that he might be held responsible for some malfeasance — maybe he chose to end it all rather than face his clients."

"But if he killed himself, why didn't he just jump off? Why go to the elaborate ruse of sabotaging the rail?"

Steele looked thoughtful. "Or perhaps Corny discovered the funny business going on with his clients' accounts and the real perpetrator had him taken care of to keep him from contacting the authorities."

When their stroll took them near the front of the ship, Laura paused to look over the deck rail at the sea and sky. The skies had cleared, the wind dropped to a whisper, and a bright moon made the ocean swells sparkle like diamonds. "A contract killing arranged by a colleague? That would put Darla in the clear." She shook her head. "No. I still think she's involved somehow. Her behavior is just too suspicious."

"Speaking of suspicious …" Steele tapped her arm and gestured subtly in the direction of the bow. Tony Alliveri was standing near the rail, his back to the detectives. He had a large canvas bag slung over one shoulder. Laura and Steele stepped back into the shadows of an alcove to observe the musician's action. As they watched, he looked around him as if checking to make sure he was alone, then reached into the bag, withdrew an object and heaved it over the side.

Laura and Steele exchanged puzzled glances. "Bigger than a breadbox, smaller than a body," Steele whispered. "His trumpet, maybe?"

At that moment Tony whirled, obviously startled. Laura gasped, thinking they'd been discovered. Instead, the musician looked past their hiding spot, and Laura heard a click of heels approaching rapidly. Seconds later, the shoes' wearer, Darla Merriwether, appeared. She strode purposely toward Tony; Laura and Steele shrank further back into the shadows at her approach. As they had last night, Alliveri and Darla began to engage in a tense, whispered dialogue — interrupted at times by more audible exclamations.

"I want no more part of this!" Tony said loudly enough for the detectives to hear. They watched Darla put a hand on the young man's shoulder and say something to him. Her words caused Tony to turn away from her roughly. He started to move away, but she grabbed his arm and tugged him back.

"It's too late for second thoughts," Darla growled, getting right up in his face. There followed an exchange that was mostly too low for Laura and Steele, though they caught occasional words: "plan," "hidden," "Freeport" and … "steel." That last caused Laura and Steele to look at one another. Finally the two seemed to come to some sort of resolution, though neither looked very happy. After a final terse exchange, they parted ways, heading off in opposite directions.

"You've got the horn player; I'll take the widow," Laura murmured to Steele. He nodded and they each slipped out of the shadows to pursue their separate quarries. Laura slipped along the deck, hugging the shadows, as she followed Darla at a safe distance. The widow abruptly turned left, and Laura hurried after her into a long room filled with small tables and deck chairs. One wall of the room comprised windows to allow a protected view of Promenade deck and sea beyond. The ship's lifeboats, covered with orange, weatherproof tarp, hung from the deck at intervals along this section of the ship. Darla was visible in silhouette at the far end of the room. She turned as Laura entered.

"Are you following me, Miss Holt?" she demanded harshly.

Laura started to answer, when two things occurred simultaneously: A faint, slightly familiar odor reached Laura's nostrils … and a sharp, desperate cry split the air from further down the ship. It was Mr. Steele's voice.

Laura bolted from the observation room and dashed down the deck in the direction Mr. Steele had followed Alliveri. She saw neither man, but as she raced back toward the bow, she heard another shout — coming from _below_ the deck rail. Laura leaned over the railing and scanned the darkness below. At first she saw nothing but shadows among the hulks of the lifeboats lashed to the side of the ship. Then … movement. Clinging to one of the lines that webbed around a lifeboat, about six feet below the level of the deck, Laura saw a dark form.

"Mr. Steele?" she called.

"Laura?" His voice was strained, breathless. Laura felt a knife of panic slice through her. Her partner was hanging from a line by both hands, like a trapeze artist. But there was no safety net beneath him. Instead, he dangled in open air, 60 feet above the churning waves.

"Oh, my God!" Laura frantically searched for some means to reach him. She leaned as far over the rail as she could, stretching her arm in his direction. But she was several feet short. She looked at the lifeboat, gauging whether she could climb aboard it, then shimmy down the webbing. As if guessing her thoughts, Mr. Steele called, "Don't try to reach me, Laura. It's too dangerous." His tone was commanding, but even more breathless and now edged with panic. Laura saw him start to swing on the rope, trying to build momentum. Finally he managed to hoist one leg over the line. He was now in a roughly horizontal position. But his situation was more than precarious, and Laura sensed his strength was waning.

"Go … get … help," he wheezed.

"I'm not leaving you!" Laura retorted. She tore her eyes from him to scan the empty deck. "HELP! SOMEBODY HELP!" she screamed. Her gaze found Steele again, and she gasped when she saw him sag on the line, nearly losing his grip. "Hang on, Mr. Steele!" There was no answer. Gripped with terror, Laura started to climb over the rail.

"No. No. Stay there." His voice was a rasp.

"I can't let you fall! I've got to do something! HELP! PLEASE, SOMEBODY!"

"Laura … I can't hold on much longer."

"No, hang on! Hang on! I'm coming to get you. I'll find a way …"

"I need … to tell you … something, Laura." His voice faltered.

"Don't try to talk. Save your breath. Save your strength!"

Steele's breath was coming in sharp, groaning gasps. "You need … to hear … what it's meant to me … these past two years. Before I … I … I want you to know …"

"Please, please just hang on, Mr. Steele."

"Laura." His voice was soft and strangely calm. "Laura … I lo-"

"You there! What are you doing?" A man's voice shouted from close by.

"Oh, my God!" Laura yelled. "Please help us! He's going to fall!" She gestured frantically over the side as three crewmen appeared, running out of the darkness. With machine-like precision, the men sprang into action. One opened a metal trunk positioned against the bulkhead behind them and pulled out a rope ladder, then a long line with a harness and carbiners. Another grabbed a life ring from a hook on the rail, while the third leaned over the railing to shout to Steele.

"Hang on, buddy!"

Steele didn't answer, but Laura could still hear his tortured breathing. The officer took one end of the rope ladder and slung it over the side, while another of the trio hooked himself into the harness. The remaining crewman was now on a radio, barking instructions. Within half a minute, the first crewman was scrambling over the side and starting down the rope ladder. There was a commotion below them; looking down, Laura saw that a similar team of crew had assembled on the deck below Mr. Steele. They had assembled a net-like device and were clamping it to the rail. It extended out from the ship several feet, but Laura wasn't sure it stretched far enough to catch her partner if he fell.

The descending crewman was talking to Steele, offering reassuring phrases. It scared Laura that he didn't answer. He seemed to have lapsed into some kind of shock, but his hands remained locked around the line in a vise-like grip. The crewman reached Steele's level, but the line supporting the detective was several feet's distance from the side of the ship. The crewman braced his feet against the side of the ship, bent his legs and pushed off forcefully. Supported by his harness and line, he sailed out toward Steele … not far enough. He swung back against the ship, braced his feet again and thrust even more powerfully. This time he reached out and grabbed the line Steele was holding. He was close enough to the detective to grab him around the waist.

"I've got you," the man muttered, and Laura felt a wave of relief wash over her – just as the line shook, the crewman let out a cry … and Mr. Steele dropped away into the darkness. Laura screamed.

There was hollering down below, and Laura finally made out sweet words: "We've got 'im!" Pressing herself against the rail, she looked down and watched the crew below hauling the net, with Mr. Steele prone in its center, back onto the ship. Laura raced to the nearest stairwell and ran down to the deck below. She emerged to see Mr. Steele, unmoving, being strapped onto a gurney.

"Where are you taking him?" Laura asked, pushing herself through a gathering crowd of passengers to the side of the gurney. Steele was deathly pale, his features slack, his eyes closed. Laura reached for him, desperate to touch his face. One of the crew tried to pull her away.

"Please, miss. We need to get him to the infirmary."

"Is he … is he?" Laura couldn't finish the unbearable thought.

Steele's eyes opened slowly, and his gaze found Laura. "Rumpled?" he said weakly. "I'm afraid so, Laura." He managed a tepid smile that caused her to laugh with relief.

"Save your strength, Mr. Steele," she said, reaching out to brush a damp strand of hair off his forehead. "I want you good and healthy when I kill you for scaring me like this."

A shirtless Steele sat on the edge of the examining table, wincing as the ship's physician lifted first one arm and then another over his head. "Ow," Steele protested as the doctor continued to manipulate his limbs. Laura stood nearby, watching the examination anxiously.

"Nothing broken, no internal injuries. You're going to be pretty sore for the next few days," the doctor pronounced. He nodded to Laura, who handed Steele his shirt. As he attempted, gingerly, to pull it over his shoulders, Laura wordlessly took it from him and gently eased his arms into the sleeves, then buttoned it up the front.

"Can we go back to our cabin now?" Laura asked.

"Not quite yet." Laura and Steele looked to see Captain Broadmoor standing in the doorway. The captain nodded to the doctor, who left the room and closed the door behind him. "What the hell happened out there?" Broadmoor demanded when they were alone.

"I wish I knew," Steele admitted. "One minute I was standing on deck, the next minute something hit me and I fell over the railing."

"I can fill in at least one of the blanks," Broadmoor said. "It appears a hatch cover on the lifeboat nearest you was weakened in the storm and broke off just as you walked by. It must have knocked you off balance and over the rail."

"What an extraordinary coincidence that the hatch failed at that moment," Steele said. "In any case, it was a miracle I managed to grab that line as I fell." He gave the captain a wry smile. "I shouldn't be here."

"I'm beginning to think none of us should be here," the captain muttered. "This cruise has been-"

"Cursed?" Laura interjected.

The captain scowled. "Turbulent." He turned back to Steele. "Try to stay out of trouble for the next two days, will you? The sooner we get this girl back in dock in Miami, the happier I'll be."

"Oh, I go out of my way to avoid trouble, captain," Steele answered brightly. "Unfortunately, it seems to go equally out of its way to find me."

Moments later, Steele and Laura left the sick bay with ibuprofen, Ben-Gay and strict instructions for Steele to take it easy. Laura stuck close by his side as they rode the elevator back up to Deck 9. "Why didn't you tell the captain that it was Alliveri who assaulted you?" she asked.

"Because it wasn't," he answered. "He was ahead of me when I got knocked from behind. I'm beginning to think Darla Merriwether has a lot more testosterone than is typical for the fairer sex."

"It wasn't Darla, either. I followed her into an observation room just before I heard you shout."

"So the Ghost of the Fiesta strikes again," Steele said.

"Whatever. I'm in full agreement with the captain on this point," said Laura. "The sooner we're off this ship, the better."

Laura was frankly relieved to reach their cabin and even glad to see the big bed, still divided down the middle with the rope — though the Blanket of Jericho had been pulled to one end, presumably by a puzzled Michael, the steward. Steele limped painfully to the bed and sat down.

"Need help?" Laura asked as he fingered the buttons on his shirt.

"Please, Laura. I'm perfectly fine," he protested, then started to tug on his sleeves, let out a soft groan and thought better of his bravado. "Actually … I guess I could use a hand."

Laura sat beside him, finished unbuttoning his shirt and carefully tugged it over his shoulders. She picked up the tube of linament, slathered some in her palm and began to massage it delicately into his shoulders.

"Ahhh," Steele breathed, closing his eyes as she continued her ministrations. "You have the hands of an angel, Laura."

"At least I'm good for something," she muttered, causing him to open his eyes and look at her in surprise. "I was completely useless out there," she explained. "I saw you hanging out there and I just panicked."

"I was a little unnerved myself," he said, trying to get her to smile. She didn't.

"If it had been some stranger, I would have had the presence of mind to … to …"

"To what? You couldn't have pulled anybody else back on board, either," Steele argued.

"I could have done something," she said quietly. "I would have gone for help, if it had been anyone else. But I couldn't leave you. And you could have died because of it."

Steele twisted painfully and removed Laura's hands from his shoulders, cradling them in his own. He looked at her seriously. "I didn't die, Laura. If I had, it wouldn't have been your fault. If you hadn't found me and called for help, I wouldn't be here. And to be honest, if you hadn't been there, I would have given up and let go of that rope." He smiled and stroked her cheek gently with his thumb. "You reminded me of what I have to live for." When she smiled back at him, he leaned forward and gave her a quick, soft kiss. "Thank you," he said.

"Thank you," she answered. She got up and walked into the bathroom to wash the goo off her hands. When she returned, she found Mr. Steele laying on his back on his side of the bed.

"Laura," he ventured, "I'm not sure I've got the strength to get my trousers off. Give a fellow a hand?"

Laura stared at him a moment, then slowly and deliberately started to clap. "That's the only hand you're getting from me, buddy," she said, amused.

Steele sighed. "You know I had to give it a shot, Laura."

She knelt on her side of the bed, crawled over toward him and ducked under the dividing rope to plant a quick kiss on his lips. When he placed a hand behind her neck to draw her back down to him, she didn't protest. Their kiss this time was lingering, sensuous. "This beats laughter as the best medicine," Steele murmured against her lips as they parted. "Another hour or two of this and I'll be good as new."

She laughed out loud, straightened up and shook her head at him. "You are incorrigible, Mr. Steele," she said, pulling the blanket wall between them.

"And you, Miss Holt, are a lifesaver."


	11. Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

When she woke in the morning, Laura was surprised to find Mr. Steele showered, dressed and sipping a cup of tea on the balcony. Laura marveled at the apparent resilience of the man, a trait she'd witnessed any number of times over the course of their association. It seemed he was forever getting knocked on the head, run down by vehicles and generally getting the hell beaten out of him … only to snap back almost immediately as if nothing had happened.

Watching him through the balcony door, however, Laura noticed that his movements were slow and careful, and she saw his body tense and his hand shake slightly as he picked up the teapot on the table next to him and warmed his cup. It was more evidence of what Laura had suspected for a long time: Mr. Steele was as susceptible as anyone else to pain. He could be hurt — sometimes very badly, and not only physically. But he had learned some time in his mysterious past to hide that humanity behind a mask of glib charm and iron will. To show pain was to reveal weakness … and to make himself vulnerable to those who would seek to exploit any chink in the armor. Laura couldn't help thinking of countless nature documentaries she'd seen, in which the pride of lions singled out the weakest member of the gazelle herd and brought it down with ruthless efficiency. She wondered what sort of predator had taught Mr. Steele to hide his wounds so determinedly.

Steele glanced into the cabin, saw her looking at him and smiled brightly. He bent without a trace of discomfort, picked up a second teacup from the table and held it aloft in silent invitation. She nodded back to him, pulled on her robe and joined him outside. The morning was sunny and already warm. Laura accepted the offered teacup and allowed him to fill it.

"You're up early," she commented. "How are you feeling?"

"Never better!" he declared, so convincingly that she almost believed him. "I thought I'd watch us come into port in Freeport. We're just coming in to dock." He gestured toward the leeward side of the ship. Laura followed his direction and observed a heavily built up shoreline beside the ship, and a wide, mostly flat strip of vegetation receding behind it. Like the rest of the Bahamian islands, Grand Bahama was not volcanic. Rather it was the remains of vast coral reefs rising from the shallow waters off the North American coast.

"After last night's misadventure," Steele remarked, "I thought perhaps we might take a break from sleuthing today and join the rest of the mob of tourists invading the island."

"A few hours onshore sounds wonderful," Laura agreed. "But you were supposed to take it easy, remember?"

Steele smiled. "What could be more easygoing than a stroll on a tropical beach, lunch at a charming café — complete with one of those umbrella drinks, naturally — and perhaps a bit of shopping in a kitchy souvenir market?"

"I was wanting to get one of those coconuts carved into a pirate's head," Laura admitted. At Steele's amused look, she added, "For Mildred!"

"Uh huh. Mildred."

"Give me half an hour to shower and get dressed," she said.

"Great. And I'll run down to the purser's desk and collect some brochures. I'm sure there's plenty to see and do on the island."

It was closer to 45 minutes before Laura had gotten herself ready for a day of adventure on Grand Bahama. She had put her hair up in a high ponytail and was wearing a red t-shirt, khaki chinos and canvas flats. Laura rarely wore shoes without heels because of the height disparity between her and Mr. Steele; she hated having to crane her neck to look up at him. However, she had no idea what sort of terrain they'd be covering today, so she wanted to be as comfortable as possible.

But when Mr. Steele came breezing in a few minutes later, he looked her up and down and shook his head. "I'm afraid you're seriously overdressed, Laura."

"Oh? And what would be more appropriate?"

Steele grinned. "A bikini."

"Try again. There's no way I'm walking around Freeport all day in a bikini."

"Suit yourself. But that outfit's going to be pretty bulky under a wetsuit."

"A wetsuit! Who's yacht are we sneaking aboard this time?"

Steele held up a colorful brochure with a depiction of a diver surrounded by colorful fish on the front. "I've signed us up for a scuba diving excursion." He flipped open the brochure and began to read. "_Get up close and personal with the extraordinary beauty and variety of sea life in an underwater paradise. Spectacular coral formations are home to Angelfish, snappers, rays, barracudas and sharks_."

"First of all, scuba diving doesn't sound like taking it easy."

"Au contraire. It's described right here as an 'easy afternoon dive.' Next objection?"

"Sharks?"

"Fully tame and harmless as puppies, I'm sure."

Laura wavered. Like Mr. Steele, she was an experienced diver, having learned in college during an idyllic spring break in Barbados. A natural athlete, she'd loved the freedom and adventure of underwater exploration and had dived many times since. She'd never dived in the Bahamas, however. It was tempting.

"Are you sure it won't aggravate your strained muscles?" she asked.

"You've never heard of hydrotherapy? Water's the best thing for working out the kinks."

Visions of clownfish danced in Laura's head. Her eyes brightened. "Give me five minutes to put my suit on under my clothes."

There was time for a quick lunch and browsing in the souvenir shops — where Laura got her prized coconut head — before Laura and Steele headed back to the pier and the headquarters of Caribbean Odyssey Scuba Tours. There was a small group of novice divers already there, receiving basic instruction in a shallow enclosure close to where the dive boat, _The Marlin_, was waiting. Among the neophytes bobbing around in calm water, Laura saw a slender figure whose vibrant auburn hair stood out in contrast to the azure water.

"I don't believe it!" Laura whispered to Steele, nodding toward Darla, who seemed to be getting special attention from the dive instructor. At Steele's lack of reaction, Laura grew suspicious. "You don't seem very surprised to see her here."

"It's possible I saw her name on the list of passengers who signed up for the excursion," Steele admitted.

Laura crossed her arms and frowned up at him. "What happened to taking the afternoon off?"

"Sorry, Laura. I suppose my investigative zeal got the best of me." He gave her a knowing look. "You're not curious why a woman whose husband drowned two days ago, who was pitching a fit yesterday morning about wanting off the ship, would choose to spend her onshore time looking at pretty fishes underwater?"

"I never thought I'd say this, Mr. Steele, but you may be getting too dedicated for your own good."

"I've always said there's no harm in mixing business with pleasure." He gave her a smile. "Join me in suiting up?"

Half an hour later Laura found herself in a wetsuit on a boat that was motoring out of Bell Channel Bay into the vivid turquoise waters off the island. Darla had seemed startled and displeased to see them board the boat, so Laura was surprised when she sat down next to her.

"Mr. Steele and Miss Holt! I didn't expect to see you here," she commented in an overly friendly tone.

"We're both avid divers," Laura responded.

"And Laura is into rubber," Steele winked, plucking at the sleeve of her dive suit. Laura shot him a baleful glare.

Darla looked confused. "Ah … I see. Still, after what happened last night …"

Laura feigned ignorance. "What happened last night?"

"Well, it's all over the ship that Mr. Steele was nearly killed. But you were luckier than my husband, it seems."

"An unfortunate accident," Steele said. "Nothing like what happened to Mr. Merriwether."

Laura studied Darla's face carefully, but her expression betrayed nothing.

"It's nice that you're feeling up to an outing like this, given what you've been through," Laura remarked.

Darla bristled. "If you're suggesting I'm not mourning sufficiently, I assure you nothing could be further from the truth. In fact, Corny loved to scuba dive, and this excursion was to be one of the highlights of our honeymoon. He had so looked forward to sharing this with me that it seemed only fitting to honor his memory by participating as planned. Since I won't have a body to bring back home for burial, the dive company agreed to allow me to leave this on the bottom as a memorial." She picked up a champagne bottle that had been sitting near her feet.

"I certainly meant no offense," Laura said. "I think it's inspiring that Corny was so full of life at his age."

"My Corny was a robust and remarkable man, Miss Holt."

"We've arrived at the dive site," the dive instructor announced loudly. "Line up to get your tanks and gear."

Mr. Steele, Laura and Darla joined the queue and were duly equipped with their tanks, goggles and weight belts. Burdened with the tanks and lugging the champagne bottle, Darla struggled to maintain her balance in the gently rocking boat. She bumped into Laura, nearly knocking her over the side. "I'm so sorry," she apologized, helping Laura up from where she had stumbled.

"Quite all right," Laura said, hiding her irritation behind a smile. Mr. Steele had made it to the front of the boat and Laura hurried away from Darla to join him. "I know you wanted to keep an eye on the merry widow," she said in a low voice, "but I recommend giving Mrs. Merriwether a wide berth when we're in the water. She doesn't seem very adept."

After some final instructions and cautions from the dive instructor, Laura and Steele sat on the edge of the boat and tipped back into the water. In a moment Laura found herself in a glorious world of color as she and Mr. Steele descended to the brilliant coral reef. It was teeming with schools of blue tang, parrot fish, anemones, sea stars, and waving fronds of sea grass. The detectives swam side by side over the reef, marveling at the abundance of beauty around them. Steele pointed and Laura saw a small reef shark gliding in a lazy zig-zag motion below them. Laura looked at Steele and grinned as he gave her a thumbs up sign.

The pair drifted apart slightly as Mr. Steele continued to shadow the reef from above, while Laura dove a little deeper to get a closer look at some particularly vibrant sea anemones on the coral. Nearing the sandy bottom, Laura noticed a figure swimming rapidly in the direction of a large coral formation. It was Darla Merriwether, and she was moving with far more grace and confidence than Laura would have expected, given her inexperience. Darla swam through a large arch-like formation and disappeared into the coral maze beyond.. Instinctively, Laura swam after her.

Passing under the coral arch, Laura observed Darla a few dozen yards ahead. The widow settled on the bottom and removed the champagne bottle that had been secured to her waist. She circled a clump of coral as if searching for something, then wedged the bottle into a crevice. At that moment she looked up and stared straight at Laura. Then, with a swish of her flippers, she began to ascend.

Laura hesitated, unsure whether to follow her, go investigate the bottle or return to Mr. Steele. Her brain felt fuzzy, as if her thoughts were slowing down and fragmenting. She was suddenly dizzy and oddly euphoric as the coral and marine life around her seemed to shimmer and glow. Inexplicably, the patch of water around her was growing darker, as though she were in a tunnel. Dimly, Laura realized she was floating on her back, sinking slowly toward the bottom. High above her, the surface was a ring of light that was steadily closing like the aperture of a camera. She realized on some level that this wasn't right … but the waters cradled her so gently, and the darkness was closing in so softly, that it didn't matter. The last thing she saw before she closed her eyes was a familiar form swimming rapidly through the dwindling, narrow shaft of light toward her.

Mr. Steele.

Laura smiled, and surrendered to the darkness.

The next thing she felt was Mr. Steele's soft lips covering her mouth. As he blew into her throat, Laura's eyes fluttered. She was paralyzed, suffocating, unable to take a breath or make a sound. A heavy weight was pushing against her chest and she was vaguely aware of a choked, sobbing sound above her.

"Come on, Laura! Breathe! Please, please come back to me.. Breathe!" Then Mr. Steele's mouth was over hers again, filling her lungs with his warm breath. Laura gasped, inhaled deeply and began to cough. She found herself being rolled onto her side, and instantly vomited seawater. Mr. Steele's strong arms enfolded her and lifted her torso slightly as she continued to gag and retch. Her lungs were on fire and a throbbing pain knifed through her head. But she was alive … and as full consciousness began to return, she felt Steele's trembling cheek pressed against hers, heard his lips murmuring a prayer of thanks.

By the time the speeding Marlin reached the mouth of the bay 10 minutes later, Laura was able to sit up, wrapped in a blanket and cradled in Mr. Steele's arms. She tried to speak, but her throat was raw from salt water and she produced only a garbled rasp.

"Shhh," Steele whispered in her ear. "Everything's all right now, Laura. You're safe. Just relax. I've got you." He pressed his lips to her temple tenderly and cuddled her against him. She drew strength from his comforting presence, feeling more alert with every passing moment. Eventually someone handed her a bottle of water, and she was able to sip the cool liquid, which soothed the burn in her throat and chest.

"What happened?" she finally got out.

"I don't know," Steele answered, his own voice shaking. "Something went wrong with your regulator. You weren't getting enough oxygen."

"How is that possible?" Laura asked, increasingly sensitive to the eyes of the other passengers on her. The boat was eerily silent, the faces of her shipmates pale and anxious. She managed what she hoped was a reassuring smile.

"I don't know, but we're sure as hell going to find out." Steele's voice was strained with barely repressed rage.

They were pulling into the dock, and Laura struggled to get to her feet. "Not a chance," Steele said, scooping her up in his arms. He managed to carry her onto the dock, where a team of paramedics waited with a stretcher.

"I don't need all this," Laura protested as Steele laid her gently on the stretcher. She pushed herself into a sitting position. "Really. This is embarrassing."

"Damn it, Laura! I almost lost you!" Steele barked, startling her into silence. He clasped her hands between his. "At least let them take a look at you," he said softly. "For my peace of mind."

Laura rolled her eyes and settled back onto the stretcher. Steele kept hold of her hand as they wheeled her up the dock and to the ambulance in the carpark. A representative of the local constabulary was also waiting, notebook in hand, to take down the details of the incident. Laura provided what little information she could while the paramedics checked her over. She clearly recalled entering the water with Mr. Steele … and then things became muddled.

Steele supplied that he had discovered she was no longer with him, and saw her swimming off into the distance; by the time he reached her, she was lying motionless on the bottom. His voice shook as he described pulling her to the surface, shouting for help, administering CPR when they got her back into the boat. The boat's captain and dive instructor were also called on to give statements. They both insisted the equipment had been thoroughly inspected before they left the dock, and their only explanation was that the rebreather valve on Laura's tank must have been damaged somehow before or after she entered the water.

"I stumbled as we were getting ready to get in the water," Laura suddenly recollected. "I didn't think the tank hit on anything, but …" She shrugged.

By the time the interrogation concluded, it was time to reboard the Fiesta. Steele still didn't trust Laura's strength, so he hailed a cab to drive them back to the ship. En route, Laura shared what else she had begun to remember of the afternoon's events.

"I remember Darla bumping into me; that's when I lost my footing on the boat. And then …" Her eyes opened wider. "Darla! I was following her, underwater. She had something … the bottle of champagne … and she put it in some coral. Things were getting hazy by that time, but I know she saw me – she must have seen I was in trouble. I saw her head for the surface, but I didn't seem to have the energy to go after her. Then I saw you swimming toward me, and that's all until I woke up back on the boat."

"You think Darla is responsible for the malfunction of your tank?"

"Who knows? It could have been accidental. But she certainly didn't raise the alarm when I was running out of air 40 feet underwater."

"She'll be sorry for that," Steele said bitterly.

Laura looked up at him, his handsome jaw set in angry resolve. "Don't worry. If she had anything to do with Corny's death, your nearly getting killed last night and my little adventure today, we'll see that justice is done." She patted his hand resting on his knee. "Thank you for saving my life, by the way."

"Just make sure I never have to again," he said, looking at her with eyes glistening with tenderness and worry. "And next vacation, we're going to Disneyland."


	12. Chapter 12

CHAPTER 12

Laura stood on the balcony of their cabin and stared into the surging wake behind the ship. She still felt a little wobbly, but a long nap had done much to restore her. She felt less good about the status of their "case." Despite what she'd told Steele in the cab, Laura wasn't sure that they'd solve this one. It was the last night of the cruise; they would dock back in Miami in the morning. And they were really no closer to discovering what happened to Cornelius Merriwether – much less who was behind the attacks upon Steele and herself – than they were the night the man went overboard. Every instinct told Laura that Darla was involved in all three incidents. But hunches weren't proof, and without evidence or even a theory of the crime, their chances of bringing the murderer to justice were nil.

Steele had suggested they skip dinner to give Laura more time to rest, but she had insisted. If there was any possibility of cracking the case, it wouldn't happen in this cabin. So Laura had dressed to the nines for this last, most formal dinner: a black, floor-length gown with a beaded bustier and filmy, chiffon skirt. She accessorized with pearl drop earrings and the heart pendant Steele had given her a year or so ago. It was an item she treasured, but rarely wore.

Like so many of the pieces of her relationship with Mr. Steele, the necklace confused her. The symbolism seemed fairly obvious … too obvious for a man with an almost pathological aversion to articulating his feelings. She was equally confused by her own decision to pack the necklace and wear it tonight. Perhaps it was because she was feeling particularly close to him tonight, after the events of the day. The slightly foggy memory of his tender pleading as he worked to revive her reminded her of another time when he thought he'd lost her: when she'd been shot while wearing a blazer made of Kemlar. He'd opened his heart to her then, too, and Laura couldn't help wondering why they could only be honest with each other in times of crisis.

She was so lost in thought that she didn't even notice Steele until he slipped behind her and curled his arm around her waist. "Hey," he whispered in her ear. "How are you feeling?" She couldn't help relaxing against him as she glanced over her shoulder and into his concerned, blue eyes. "I'm fine. Don't fuss." Reluctantly, she stepped out of his embrace and turned to look him over appraisingly. "You look good."

He had donned the white dinner jacket he'd worn the first night of the cruise. At Laura's words, he beamed and preened slightly; she enjoyed stroking his vanity a bit once in a while. There was no arguing that he was an exceptionally handsome man. "So do you," he returned the compliment.

"Time to go to dinner?"

He glanced at his Rolex. "We've got a few minutes yet." He joined her at the railing, looking out over the gently rolling sea. The breeze was light, butcool; Laura shivered as it caressed her bare shoulders.

"Here," Steele said, taking off his jacket. "We can't have you catching cold." As he moved to place it around her, he caught sight of a bulge in the inside pocket. "I forgot about this," he said as he pulled out the cigar Merriwether had given him. He settled his jacket around Laura's shoulders, then reached in his trousers pocket for his lighter. "Might as well enjoy it, in memory of poor, old Corny."

As he held the flame to the cigar, Laura wrinkled her nose. "Mind standing downwind?"

"Sorry." He moved to the other side of her, clenched the cigar between his teeth, inhaled deeply and blew out a cloud of smoke. Despite his precautions, the capricious breeze shifted slightly and Laura caught a healthy dose of cigar smoke in her face. She instinctively coughed … then her eyes opened wide.

"Oh, my God! That's it!" she exclaimed. She hopped up and down in glee, then flung her arms around Steele. "You're a genius!"

"Of course I am," Steele answered, grinning in bemusement. "How, exactly?"

"When I was tailing Darla last night, just before I heard you shout for help, I looked for her into an observation lounge. She wasn't there, but I smelled something. I didn't recognize it at the time, but now I do. It was cigar smoke. Specifically, cigar smoke that stank exactly like _that_." She reached up and snatched the cigar from Steele's mouth.

"So Corny handed out a few of these things. What's that prove?" Steele asked.

"What was the name of that Hitchcock film you took me to at the revival house a few months ago? It was set on a train and featured Michael Redgrave and some old lady."

"The Lady Vanishes. Gainsborough Pictures, 1938. Michael Redgrave, Margaret Lockwood … and your so-called old lady was _Dame _May Witty, one of the greatest actresses of her time." He frowned. "Are you suggesting Corny was a British secret agent?"

"No. But I'm suggesting he had some reason to vanish – or _appear_ to vanish – from this ship."

Understanding dawned on Steele's handsome face. "Miss Holt, I believe you're right," he said, plucking his cigar from Laura's fingers. "I _am_ a genius."

Half an hour later the key characters had been assembled, at the Captain's command, at his table in a private section of the dining room. Apart from Laura and Mr. Steele, no one looked as if they wanted to be there. Marian and Martin Peabody, who hadn't been seen since the night of the storm, were dour and peevish. Darla Merriwether presented herself with defiant hauteur, declaring her resentment at having been thus summoned. And Captain Broadmoor simply looked annoyed at being coerced into convening the group at only a cryptic request from the detectives.

When everyone had been served and wine poured, Mr. Steele stood up. "Thank you all for joining us for this final dinner, the culmination of what I think we can all agree has been a very eventful journey."

The guests stared back at him sourly.

"I believe it was Mrs. Peabody – Marian – who first suggested that the maiden voyage of the Fiesta must be cursed," Steele continued. "There certainly has been an unfortunate (dare I say uncanny) series of events, starting, of course, with the strange disappearance of Cornelius Merriwether from the ship our first night out."

"The only strange thing about my husband's death is that such a broken-down ship and incompetent crew were ever allowed to set sail," Darla snapped.

"Be that as it may," Steele said, "it set the tone for subsequent events: the difficulties with the Peabodys' and other passengers' financial accounts, the storm that prevented the ship from making its scheduled stop at Nassau — I believe that was particularly frustrating for you, Mrs. Merriwether — my own close call last evening and Miss Holt's near-fatal diving accident only this afternoon." The detective paused, looked around the table and took a long, slow sip from his wine glass. Laura smiled inwardly; her partner played these dramatic reveals to the hilt.

The others at the table were less impressed. "Just what is the point of all of this, Steele?" Martin Peabody groused, the first words they'd heard out of the man the entire cruise.

"Only that the string of accidents that have befallen all of us beggar belief and defy the laws of chance."

"Meaning?" Darla asked.

"Meaning that they weren't accidents at all, starting with Corny's disappearance."

"I already knew my husband's death was no accident; it was negligence!" hissed Darla.

"That's one possibility. But the evidence suggests otherwise, I think," Steele intoned dramatically. "Miss Holt?"

Laura rose from her chair on cue. "As you know, Mr. Steele and I were witnesses to Corny's apparent fall from the balcony of his stateroom. We of course rushed to the scene, where Mr. Steele assisted Mrs. Merriwether back into the cabin. At that time, we observed that a section of the balcony railing had given way. This, it seemed, was how Corny had fallen."

She pushed back her chair and walked around the table, pausing next to Mr. Steele. "While in the act of rescuing Mrs. Merriwether, Mr. Steele came upon some evidence at the crime scene. Mr. Steele?"

He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew the severed bolt he'd picked up on the balcony. He handed it to Laura, who held it up for everyone at the table to see.

"This is one of the bolts that secured the railing to the ship," Laura explained. "A close examination reveals it was not broken or loose. It was cut. I think we can assume the others were also altered in the same way." She handed the item back to Steele. "This removes accident and negligence as causes, leaving only one possibility: deliberate sabotage."

There was an eruption around the table.

"I don't see what this has to do with us," Marian Peabody whimpered. "Sure you can't think either Martin or I are responsible for Corny's death."

"And if you think I cut those bolts and killed my husband, you're crazy!" Darla snarled.

"My dear Marian, Mrs. Merriwether, let's not jump to conclusions," Mr. Steele said, picking up the narrative. "Of course neither the Peabodys nor any other passengers aboard the Fiesta cut that bolt. That also excludes you, Darla."

"Bolts don't cut themselves, Mr. Steele," the captain said.

"No, indeed, sir. They do not," said the detective. "A specialized tool was needed – one used in routine repair and maintenance aboard the ship, such as after our recent storm. In short, the bolts were cut by a member of the crew."

"Preposterous!" Captain Broadmoor objected. "Why would a crew member want Cornelius Merriwether dead?"

"We're getting ahead of ourselves again, captain," Laura answered. "We need to answer Mrs. Peabody's question first: the reason they were asked to this dinner party." She turned her attention to Marian. "Our first night onboard, you mentioned that Cornelius Merriwether handled your investment portfolio, as well as several others in our group."

"Yes," Marian agreed, "and if Corny was alive, he'd be able to sort out whatever mix-up caused the problem we've experienced with our ship's credit."

"I doubt it, since Cornelius Merriwether was the cause of the trouble in the first place," Laura explained. "I'm afraid when you get back to Los Angeles you and the others are likely to find your funds have vanished into the same thin air that Corny disappeared into. We don't know if it was simple embezzlement or an elaborate Ponzi scheme, but we're quite sure that Corny has been paying for his upscale lifestyle with your money."

The Peabodys looked stricken. "It can't be true!" Martin gasped. "Every penny we had was with that man!"

"I'm sorry," Steele said sincerely. "Probably Corny knew his activities were on the verge of being discovered and he'd be looking at a lot of jail time. Not a pleasant prospect for a man with an … _energetic_ … new wife."

"So you're suggesting my husband committed suicide?" Darla said.

"No. We're suggesting he staged his own death – with help from you," Laura pounced.

"You're crazy!" Darla spat. "Corny is dead – you saw him fall yourself."

"We saw _something_ fall," Laura agreed. "And based on the scene in your cabin, and your statement that he'd gone overboard, we naturally assumed what we'd witnessed was your husband's body falling. That's what you wanted us to think. But it wasn't. It was a dummy."

"I won't sit here and listen to such nonsense," Darla said, rising.

"Please take your seat again, Mrs. Merriwether," Steele said, pressing lightly on her shoulder until she sank back onto her chair. "This particular episode of 'This Is Your Life' isn't over quite yet." He nodded at someone across the room, and Chief Safety Officer Mulholland approached the table with a very frightened-looking young man in tow.

"Mr. and Mrs. Peabody, I'd like you to meet Tony Alliveri, a member of the ship's orchestra," Steele said. "Darla, I believe you are already acquainted with Mr. Alliveri."

"I've never laid eyes on him before in my life," she said sullenly.

"Look again, Mrs. Merriwether. Perhaps you need to have your contact lenses adjusted," Laura said, "because we've observed you conversing with Mr. Alliveri on two separate occasions."

"So what if I did? There's no law against exchanging pleasantries with the crew, is there?"

"What the two of you had to talk about was far from pleasant, Darla," Steele said. "I'd say it was strictly business. You see, in addition to being a fine musician, Mr. Alliveri here is a most able carpenter. It was he who cut the bolts on the balcony railing in your stateroom, and he who concealed Corny below decks the past three days."

"Is this true?" the captain turned to Alliveri.

"I did not know what Senõr and Senõra Merriwether were planning," Alliveri almost whimpered. "They said they would pay for my college tuition if I helped them play a little joke on their friends, that no one would get hurt."

"Shut up, you idiot!" Darla snarled.

"When Mr. Steele and I started investigating Corny's 'accident,' and questioned Tony, he panicked," Laura picked up the thread. "Last night we saw him throw the grinder he'd used to cut the bolts overboard, then he had a rather heated conversation with Mrs. Merriwether. I'd wager he was telling her he wanted no more part of their so-called joke."

"So Cornelius Merriwether is alive on this ship?" Marian asked.

"Not any more, unfortunately. But we have a pretty good idea of his movements since he went missing. By the time Darla pushed the phony Corny off the balcony, the real and very-much-alive Cornelius was already tucked away in Tony's cabin on the crew deck. When Tony panicked, he returned to his cabin and told Cornelius to get out; after that, Merriwether hid briefly in the engine room, where Mr. Steele caught a glimpse of him when we followed Alliveri below decks.

"At some point after sundown last night, he made his way to the Promenade deck, concealing himself in the forward observation lounge. We believe he met with Darla there some time before she confronted Tony about bailing out of the scheme. When I subsequently followed Darla back to the lounge, I detected the faint remnants of the cigar he'd recently smoked. But by that time Corny was long gone. He'd slipped back on deck and crawled into one of the lifeboats. When Mr. Steele happened by moments later, Corny took the opportunity to try to put an end to our investigation – by sending Mr. Steele over the side. Fortunately, Mr. Steele is a man of extraordinary resources," Laura concluded with a smile to her partner.

"So where is Merriwether now?" the captain inquired.

It was Steele's turn again. "He'd intended to make his escape on Nassau yesterday. When that stop was cancelled, he cooled his heels until this morning. We believe he left the ship as part of the shore-going crowd, disguised as a member of the crew. Laura and I discovered that it is a simple matter to secure a crew member's uniform from the laundry on their deck. He is no doubt holed up somewhere in Freeport now. But Miss Holt and I are a step ahead of him. We know where he'll turn up next, and when he does, the Bahamian authorities will be waiting for him."

"Where?" Marian prompted.

"At the bottom of the Caribbean. But not as a corpse, as he wanted everyone to believe. In a wetsuit. He'll be there to pick up a special delivery his wife left for him this morning."

Laura noticed that Darla had gone quite pale. "You might as well confess to your part in this," she said to the pretend widow. "We know Cornelius was the mastermind of this plot; it will go easier on you if you come clean."

Darla glared daggers at Laura and maintained a stony silence.

Mr. Steele had reached the climax of his tale, and his eyes glinted with satisfaction as he continued. "In order to begin his new life, Corny would need to change his identity; he'd also need a healthy stockpile of untraceable funds. It would be dangerous to carry all of that on his person when he slipped off the ship this morning. So his grieving 'widow' arranged a very special tribute to her husband: She deposited a bottle of champagne in the coral reef off Freeport. Only it wasn't filled with bubbly. It contained bearer bonds, identity papers and other items that would make life comfortable for someone who intended to become someone else."

Laura stole a quick glance at Steele, wondering how much of the Merriwethers' elaborate plan he'd used himself in the past. Sometimes it helped to have a partner who thought like a conman.

"So Corny would retrieve his new identity from the bottom of the Caribbean and begin a new life in South America, and Darla would join him after collecting the insurance pay-out and any settlement she received from the cruise line," Laura said.

"All in all, not a bad plan," Steele added. "Pity you had to sully a perfectly good con with something as sordid as attempted murder." He made a "tsk" sound. "Corny trying to feed me to the fishes … and you, Darla, tampering with Laura's air tank! Now that was just bad form." His glib attitude abruptly turned hard. "By the way, the air tank business? I take that _very_ personally."

At that moment, a white-uniformed officer that Laura recognized as Chief Security Officer Danielson approached and whispered something in Captain Broadmoor's ear. The captain nodded, and Danielson stationed himself beside Darla Merriwether's chair.

"It seems your reputation is well deserved, Mr. Steele," the captain said. "Officer Danielson here informs me that the authorities on Grand Bahama apprehended Cornelius Merriwether trying to hire a boat to take him to the coral reefs. Divers recovered the champagne bottle Darla had hidden there – and you were right. It contained forged identity papers and untraceable bonds." He nodded to Danielson, who placed a hand on Darla's shoulder. "Mrs. Merriwether, I'm going to have to ask you to accompany Officer Danielson. You, too, Alliveri. I'm afraid your career as a shipboard musician is over."

Half an hour later, Laura and Steele were back in their stateroom. It had been an eventful day, and Laura was tired. There was a feeling of accomplishment in having cracked the case, but her elation was tempered by the knowledge that the Merriwethers' con game had left so much wreckage in its wake: the Peabodys and others financially ruined, Tony Alliveri's dreams of becoming a music teacher dashed.

Steele, on the other hand, was in high spirits. He ordered a magnum of champagne delivered to the cabin and popped the cork of the first bottle with a triumphant flourish. "To the unbeatable team of Steele and Holt!" he toasted, clinking his glass against hers.

"Ahem. I think you meant Holt and Steele," she countered.

He gave her a submissive nod. "As you wish, m'lady."

As Steele and Laura emptied the first bottle and started on the second, Laura found her mood buoyed by the bubbly and her partner's ebullient mood. And when he lowered the lights, tuned the radio in the cabin to romantic dance music and gathered her in his arms, how could she resist?

They danced slowly beside the bed, barely moving as they looked into each other's eyes. Inevitably, Steele bent his head to claim a soft, delicious kiss from her lips. She had no thought of denying him. Encouraged, he trailed sweet, nibbling kisses along her jaw line and down her neck. She closed her eyes and savored the sensations that thrilled through her as his hand moved from her lower back upward. He slid his palm under her hair and cupped the back of her neck, pulling her to him as his mouth covered hers again. The kiss was deep … and Laura arched against him, wanting to feel every inch of his body pressed to hers. A half-moaning sigh escaped her as she returned the passion of his hungry lips and tongue.

Steele maneuvered her with small steps to the edge of the bed, and as he continued to kiss her ardently, she felt her knees weaken. She sank slowly back onto the bed, pulling him with her. He supported himself on his elbows on either side of her, continuing to ply her mouth and neck with increasingly urgent kisses.

"Oh, Laura," he murmured against the sensitive hollow at the base of her neck. "We're so good together."

"Mmmmm … yes …" she breathed. Her arms were around his torso, tugging his shirt out of his pants so she could caress the warm flesh of his back. He angled against her, pressing his erection between her thighs. She gasped and tried to open her legs wider, seeking to entwine them with his. Unfortunately, the fullness of her skirt had bunched behind her as she lay down on the bed, and she found her legs wrapped as tightly as a mummy in an Egyptian tomb. Determined, she began to rock from side to side, hoping to gain some freedom. Steele mistook her maneuvering for ardor and tried to match her rhythm. "Ahhh … I want you, too," he said as she continued to buck and twist against him. "Yes … yes … er … um … Laura, what the devil are you doing?" He stopped moving abruptly and pulled back to give her a puzzled look. Breathless from her exertions, she panted into his face.

And then she started to laugh. Perhaps it was the release of tension after a stressful few days, or the alcohol in her system, or simply the ridiculousness of the situation, but Laura found herself giggling and guffawing until Steele gave in and joined her. He rolled off her and lay next to her, and they both laughed until at last they lapsed into exhausted, breathless silence.

"So I guess this isn't happening, eh?" Steele finally said, chagrined.

She gave him an affectionate smile. "I'm afraid the moment is gone, Mr. Steele."

Sighing resignedly, he got up off the bed and headed for the bathroom. "Dibs on the shower, Laura," he called back. "And don't worry about me using up all the hot water. I'll definitely be taking a cold one."


	13. Chapter 13

CHAPTER 13

Laura lay in the dark, listening to the soft, regular breathing coming from Mr. Steele's side of the Blanket of Jericho. She felt such tenderness toward him, such longing. What would it be like to hear that gentle purr every night, without the restriction of a wall between them? She closed her eyes and imagined snuggling against him in a bed – in _their_ bed – and waking up to his gentle kiss in the morning.

She was feeling dizzy and just a little ill from the champagne she'd imbibed earlier. But as she tossed and turned, sleep eluding her, Laura began to understand that the growing tension in the pit of her stomach had nothing to do with being tipsy or the gentle rocking of the ship. It was the knowledge that the morning would bring them back to port. Back to reality. And all the doubts and anxieties that had kept them apart for almost three years would still be there.

Laura hated the Cannes Agreement, even though it was her idea. Being with Mr. Steele these past three days had felt so natural. He was right: They were good together. But for how long? No matter how she fantasized of having a life with him – a home, even a family – deep down Laura knew it was a fool's dream. He had made his position on love and commitment clear a long time ago: "I've spent the better part of my life avoiding those things like the proverbial plague." Even if his feelings for her had deepened to the point where he might reconsider, there would always be a Daniel, a Felicia, an Henri Lebret, an Anna Simpson waiting to tempt him back into the exciting and footloose life he'd had before he became her Remington Steele.

And there was something else. Being with him could make her forget her own long-held convictions, toss aside the stability she'd worked so hard to create in her life. He was reckless. Indulgent. Frivolous. And he made those things seem so … seductive. There was a time when Laura could have been as heedless and headlong as he was. But Wilson's rejection of that side of her personality had taught Laura she couldn't afford to indulge those uninhibited impulses. It had been a hard lesson to learn, but she was grateful for it. It had given her the drive and focus to start her agency, build a solid life not dependent on anyone. Yes, soaring on the wings of passion had been a giddy ride, but the inevitable crash was too painful. Better to keep her feet planted firmly on the ground.

Near dawn she finally gave up on sleep, got dressed and went out on the balcony to watch the sun come up. She was still standing there when she felt Mr. Steele's strong arms wrap around her waist. In his right hand he held one of the last fresh-looking roses from the bouquet on the cabinet. He held it up to her nose for a sniff. "Good morning," he said softly.

She disengaged herself from his embrace and stepped away from him. "Good morning," she answered crisply — perhaps even a little sharply. She saw his eyebrows lift in surprise, but his smile only flickered.

"It's a beautiful day," he said, looking out at the silvery grey sea. "A perfect end to a magical journey."

"If you call nearly getting killed and seeing other people's lives ruined 'magical,' then I could agree with you."

He couldn't ignore the obvious any longer. "Somebody got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning."

"More like back in my right mind." She felt a little stab of guilt as his features betrayed hurt.

"Ahhh … I seem to have done something to upset you, Laura," he said. "Perhaps you could enlighten me, so I can make amends." He forced a smile. "Was I snoring? Talking in my sleep? If I mentioned another woman's name, I assure you it was only a female poodle I had when I was 10 years old …"

"Whatever females you have or have had in your life are none of my business," Laura said, turning away from him to stare out to sea. "And you didn't do anything to upset me. I just think it's important that we get back to normal."

"Pardon me, but I don't see anything normal about this sudden change of attitude," Steele said, a little edge of irritation creeping into his voice. "Frankly, these past few days together have felt more normal than the last three months of the cold shoulder treatment. I think this cruise proved that we're better together than apart."

"On the contrary, I think it proved definitively why we can't have a personal relationship if we want to keep working together. We should have solved the Merriwether affair the night Corny supposedly fell overboard, if we hadn't been distracted by all the wining and dining and … other things."

"So what are you saying, Laura?"

She sighed. "I'm saying that we need to treat this week as an anomaly – a period of weakness that can't be allowed to repeat itself."

"You mean the Cannes Agreement is back on."

"It was never really off. I can see now that we just can't be together in any kind of nonprofessional capacity. No more grabbing lunch together at the office or talking on the phone after hours. And certainly no more vacations."

Steele stared at her, seemingly trying to control his emotions … without success. "Damn it, Laura!" he erupted, grabbing her shoulders and turning her to face him. "I've apologized a hundred times for what happened in Cannes. I've promised it will never happen again. I've been killing myself trying to earn your trust back. How much longer are you going to keep punishing me?"

She shrugged his hands off her shoulders. He looked so wounded, so confused, that it was all she could do to keep from wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing the hurt away. But she had to stand firm. "I'm not trying to punish you, Mr. Steele," she said, her voice betraying the emptiness she felt inside. "This is hard on me, too. But we don't work as a couple and as business partners. It's too confusing, too emotional. It interferes with my – with our – ability to serve our clients. And I can't let that happen. The agency means too much to me."

"Apparently the agency means more to you than … anything," Steele said bitterly. "I'm sorry, Laura. I don't happen to agree with you. And if _I_ were the one making the choice between our professional or personal relationship, well … " he trailed off and let the import of his words sink in. Then he exhaled sharply, a sign Laura had learned was as close to displaying real anger as he usually permitted himself. "You're in charge, Laura. You always have been, and nothing I say or do is going to make us the true partners you say you want us to be. But if I want to continue living as Remington Steele – and I do – I guess I'll just have to accept that."

"It's for the best," was all Laura could think to say.

"Whatever. You're Laura, so you must be right." He'd regained his cool demeanor. "But you need to know, Miss Holt, that I'm not willing to stand around and wait like some heartsick adolescent. If you don't want to be with me … well, there are plenty of fish in the sea." He smiled humorlessly. "A hackneyed, but particularly apt metaphor, given the current situation."

"I've never asked you to deny yourself," Laura said, swallowing the shot of pain his words created in her gut. "I want you to be … fulfilled. Personally as well as professionally. If you feel the need for the kind of intimacy that I can't give you, I wish you every success."

"Gee, thanks." He turned and began to walk back into the cabin.

"I'll be exploring those options myself," Laura called after him. Truthfully, it had never occurred to her to look for someone else, any more than she had imagined he would seek comfort in another woman's arms. But now she realized that was foolish. He was a sexy, passionate man who needn't spend his nights alone. And perhaps it would be wise to follow his lead, to make herself available to new possibilities. Maybe she might even find someone who could make her forget what it felt like to be in his arms.

Her friend Meredith had invited her to a cocktail party next week. Laura knew she had neglected her other friendships since she'd been involved with Mr. Steele. It was time to restore those connections. Meredith usually invited several eligible men to her soireés. It would give her a chance to get her feet wet again, meet some interesting people. Maybe even go on a few dates.

Laura watched Mr. Steele snap his suitcase closed and leave the cabin without a word or backward glance toward her. Suddenly the room felt very empty … almost as hollow as she felt inside. But this pain was only temporary, she told herself. She would get over this … attachment … to her business associate. She would get her feet back under her. She had to.

Laura Holt, that strong and independent professional woman who knew what was best, blinked back tears. She noticed the rose Mr. Steele had brought her, now lying on the balcony railing. As her fingers closed around the stem, a thorn lanced into her finger. Wincing, she dropped the rose and watched it fall into the sea.

END

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